


Dementia Praecox

by HydraNoMago



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series), The Try Guys (Web Series)
Genre: Actual episode dialogue, Bittersweet, Delusions, Doctor/Patient, Drama & Romance, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Philosophy, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Regret, Slow Burn, Standrew - Freeform, The Professor - Freeform, The Try Guys, puppet history cameo, shyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24321388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HydraNoMago/pseuds/HydraNoMago
Summary: “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t real”, floated Ryan’s voice distantly in his head. He rolled his shoulder to rid himself of the sinking feeling which pressed down with a vengeance on his chest.Shane had never claimed to be the world's best psychologist, but he wanted to help Ryan, no matter what it took. Even if the reality he knew would be turned on its head.
Relationships: Andrew Ilnyckyj/Steven Lim, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej, Zach Kornfeld/Eugene Lee Yang
Comments: 31
Kudos: 90
Collections: Multi-Chapters, Random good fanfics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on current categories and symptoms stated in the DSM-5. 
> 
> I'm not an actual psychologist, please do rip me a new one when it comes to errors made in diagnosis or symptoms; I'm sorry in advance. 
> 
> But also, please do enjoy the story and tell me what you think! (I swear there will be more romance later on, with a healthy serving of Standrew.)

* * *

**Is** **reality a consensual hallucination?**

**And is a nervous breakdown in fact a _refusal_ to consent?**

~ Edward St. Aubyn, _Patrick Melrose_

* * *

He hated how bumpy the road was to the institution; he kept hitting the crown of his head against the low roof of the car they sent for him, his legs folded and body wedged between the boxes and papers next to him. The driver was silent as the grave, and he was marginally thankful for that; he had no motivation to stir up another mundane conversation about the weather, about their professions, about the driver’s family. Instead, he faced the scene of the dirt road lined with the chaos of the forest, like a bad game simulation, with glazed eyes and a roiling mind.

Devon was on maternity leave, and Shane sometimes thought it was better perhaps, if she left altogether. Theirs was not a profession which people who had to care for children should be in, but he knew that Devon was passionate about her work, much too attached to let it go. She had handed over the pile of manila folders with great reluctance when he last saw her, a grimace in place of a smile on both their faces. Shane didn’t particularly want to work in the institution she was in either, it was too remote for his tastes, and the fear of being stranded was always niggling at the back of his mind.

But Devon trusted no one else, and in a way Shane was honoured to have been chosen as the one who would overlook her patients during her absence. As honoured as he could be, considering where he was being carted off to. Absentmindedly, he drummed his fingers on the plastic box next to him; the plain manila folders blurred by the hoary plastic walls.

* * *

The building itself was non-decrepit; white walls with apple green accents, stout and wide. He spied a high fenced court off the side, and saw some patients lingering around the grey court, under the watchful gazes of nurses in pale green scrubs. The double glass doors slid open smoothly and automatically, a wide metal desk with a perky young receptionist who smiled at him at the very front. He dug out his ID from the breast pocket of his jean jacket, and was escorted briskly in by a male nurse to Devon’s (now his) office.

The hallways were standard, with dim lights and smooth linoleum floors, carpeted in a fine layer of dust at the edges. A pale blue door flaked with old paint; Shane frowned as the hinges gave an awful squeak. Devon had cleared out her office, but he thought he could still feel her presence there, in the doilies on the ratty sofa and the little plant sitting on the windowsill. He dropped the boxes onto the sofa where they didn’t even bounce (he promised to never sleep on that stone-hard sofa) and collapsed into the swivel chair, too tired to even adjust it to accommodate his height.

Staring up at the faint water spots on the spider-webbed ceiling, he hoped that he would be able to do this without damaging or hurting anyone.

* * *

TJ led him around for a grand tour of the institution that afternoon, pointing out the metal cabinets where all the full files were kept, the offices, the dayroom, the canteen, the showers, the court which he saw earlier. He pointed down a long corridor with a metal fence in the middle which led to the other wing, the one for female patients.

They went up a flight of stairs from the floor of their office, and TJ handed him a duplicate set of keys with access to the roof and any other patient-restricted areas of the building. The roof was filthy with bird droppings and miscellaneous items thrown by the surrounding forest, but he felt like he could breathe easier up here. TJ must have noticed the deep and shuddering breathe he took, for he grinned and patted his back, “Yeah, it’s better up here. Sometimes you just need a breather.”

* * *

He creeped his way into the dayroom, heeding TJ’s suggestion of “mingling” with the patients in an environment they felt comfortable in, rather than the formal and dreary office. The television was on at a low volume, an old episode of Sesame Street playing; the television itself sat in a cage. A handful of patients were riveted onto the screen, Elmo’s questions and Big Bird’s answers like a revelation to them. Two patients had their heads bowed over the chess board, and he spied Adam making his way towards them. Others were shuffling about the room or slumped in one of the many sofas, indulging in whatever personal activities they wished.

“Hiya Doc!”

Shane would admit that he jumped as was startled out of his reverie. The patient was almost as tall as himself, and he had an excitable look in his eyes. He was grinning widely, showing off rows of shiny teeth; he looked like a poster boy for classic wholesome American adverts. “Hello,” Shane replied, schooling his features into an approachable smile.

“You’re new here aren’t ya?” The patient’s smile widened at Shane’s nod, bordering close to maniacal. “Aw yes! I told Ned that you were new here, but he didn’t believe me, said I was going,” he twirled a finger in the air around his temple and crossed his eyes, “cuckoo, can you believe that?” He laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world, blood flooding his face pink as he smacked Shane on the shoulder.

“Well, you’ve got it right,” he chuckled back to match his emotions. “I’m Dr. Madej, it’s very nice to meet you,” he held out his hand.

The patient shook it with both of his own hands excitedly. “Boy oh boy, it’s really nice to meet ya too Dr. Madej! I’m Keith, Keith Habersberger.” He let go with a fling of his own hands and laughed again, the high-pitched sound scratching against his throat. “Say, are you a, you know?” He waggled his brows in a secretive manner, leaning into Shane’s space.

“A what?” Shane asked, feigning interest and attention as his training required him to.

“You know,” Keith nudged his shoulder hard, leaning in closer. He scanned the room with wide eyes, before whispering conspiratorially “Alien.”

His mind flicked back to the files that TJ had shown him, coming to a stop at Keith’s. “No, I’m afraid not,” he replied with full disappointment in his tone.

“Oh,” Keith pulled away jerkily, as if burnt. He adjusted his glasses. “Oh, that’s too bad.”

Shane gave him a light shrug and a smile, patting him on the back once. “Maybe they’re bored with us already,” he offered. “Earth isn’t a very interesting destination for backpacking.”

Keith snickered at that and nodded in a staccato, murmuring “Backpacking, aliens backpacking, that’s funny,” while laughing as he walked away abruptly, leaving Shane to stand at the doorway like an abandoned pet.

_Keith Habersberger_ , Shane’s mind supplied as he watched the patient talk to another.

( _32 years old, admitted for close to 6 years._

_Schizophrenic: Delusions of aliens and alien invasions.  
History of auditory hallucinations of alien voices and spaceship noises — will commit self-harm._

_Worst known case: repeatedly hitting his head against the wall to prevent aliens from stealing his thoughts, and clawed at a nurse who he accused of being an alien, who stole the skin of a human being to wear._ )

Someone burst into tears, emitting a low bout of wailing as if he were dying. Shane’s eyes locked onto a patient who was curled up on the floor, his face scrunched into a mask of pure agony, his fists clenched on his knees as he rocked back and forth. A nurse rushed to him while another paged TJ, who came running down the hallway. The patient let out an anguished wail.

“Ned!” TJ shouted as he brushed past Shane, immediately crouching down to his patient. “What’s wrong Ned? Ned? Is there something we can do to help?”

“Ariel’s not dead!” The patient shouted, banging his fists on the floor. “She’s still alive! She’s right there!” He pointed to a spot next to tall plotted plant, where there was nothing but air.

Two nurses lifted him up as gently as possible as Ned thrashed against them, TJ soothing him in low tones as they escorted him out of the room. The other patients were stirring, more interested in the unfolding drama. Shane quickly moved to help Adam calm some of them down, reassuring them that nothing was wrong with Ned.

“You’re all a bunch of liars!” He heard Ned shout from down the hallway, pain colouring his raw voice. “She’s not dead! She’s not dead! She’s not dead!” he screamed, and Shane heard the scuffle of shoes on the floor before the soft bang of a door suffused them in silence once again.

“It’s alright,” he heard Adam soothe from over his shoulder. “Ned’s just having one of his bad days today.” The patient laughed with mirth like a hyena.

Shane bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to let any of it permeate into his own psyche. He was trained for this, all those years in med school had to mean something. Turning his attention to the bean bags located next to the low shelf of books, his spine shivered as his eyes met with a pair of dark ones he recognised from a picture in Devon’s files. He straightened up to his full height, feeling nervous already about this particular patient, as he made his way over.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Madej,” he greeted with a wave of his hand. “Is this seat taken?”

The patient looked up at him from the book he was reading, and gave him a thorough once-over. With a cautious air, he nodded and Shane slumped down onto a purple bean bag, folding his legs like origami to fit. “Thank you very much,” he shot the patient a kind smile (the one he was taught to perfect), and sat with an open posture. “I’ll be taking over for Dr. Joralmon while she’s on her maternity leave. It’s very nice to meet you,” he stuck his hand out.

The patient squinted at him critically. “Maternity leave?” he echoed, finger marking the place in his book.

“Yes, maternity leave. She won’t be here for a few months, but she’ll be back once she deems that everything had been settled on her end,” Shane explained patiently, hand still out.

“I see,” the patient said doubtfully, casting his eyes onto the cover of his book before slowly bringing it back up to Shane’s hand. He raised a brow and carefully shook it once. “I’m Ryan Bergara, Don’t call me Bergara.” he ground out, then scoffed. “But I guess you already know that. ”

Shane nodded and shook back warmly. “Nice to meet you then, Ryan,” he smiled, hoping to ease some of the tension. “And please, feel free to call me Shane.”

Ryan gave him one more look with his eyebrows raised before returning to his book.

* * *

“Would anyone like to go first today?”

Shane looked at the withdrawn faces around the circle, and doubted that anyone would willingly raise their hands to TJ’s question. Ryan was there, his main patient, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the plastic chair he was on. Shane noticed the other shooting him looks, and returned them always with a kind smile, which Ryan’s scowl showed that he did not approve of.

His mind replayed Devon’s warning, her voice filtering like a faint stream: “ _You have to be very careful with Ryan. He’s more fragile than the rest in a way, but smart. You have to take what he says as a grain of salt always._ ”

From his peripheral vision, he saw Keith’s hand shoot up. “Dr. Marchbank! Can I speak first?”

TJ nodded with the same kind smile they had been trained to do, standard factory edition, like perfect mannequins. “Of course, Keith. Please,” he gestured.

Keith smiled happily. “Well, as you all know, ever since the Phoenix Lights there hasn’t been any large-scale reports of aliens. But!” he held up a finger jerkily for dramatic effect, “I kid you not people, yesterday, Zach here told me that we could see another UFO by next Sunday! And it’ll be hovering right over California where all the crazy rich people are!” he exclaimed, almost jumping out of his seat.

Zach who was seated beside Keith however, seemed to shrink into himself.

“Zach, how did you come to know of this?” TJ gently asked. Shane marked the conversation down in his notebook. The patient stared at TJ with pale blue eyes, unseeing.

“Zach?” TJ urged again, and Keith slapped him on the back, startling Zach who let out a whimper.

TJ sighed. “Keith, please,” he said in a well-worn and tone, and the patient giggled a “Sorry.” He focused his attention to Zach again. “Can you tell us where you got the information Zach?”

Zach began to scratch at his forearm, shoulders hunched. He opened his mouth and gaped like a fish, the beginnings of speech gurgling at the back of his throat, but he closed it again, and swung his head to stare at the floor tile between his feet. “I saw it,” he whispered, so soft that Shane had to strain his ears.

“Where did you see it, Zach?” TJ asked in the continuing patient and gentle voice, while Zach scratched at his red forearm and shook his head.

Shane sensed the other patients tense up at Zach’s floundering.

“I-I saw it,” Zach began again, snuffling. He peeked up at them, eyes still a pale and glassy blue. His lips were coated in a thin sheen of saliva. “The message… it came from above. I-I saw it,” he paused to wet his lips again. “In my alphabet soup.”

“Oh come on!” another patient exclaimed, kicking at the floor. Shane recognised him as _Jack Wildermann; Schizophrenic: avolition to most activities, asociality, and tangentiality_. “In your precious little alphabet soup? You always say that!” Jack scoffed.

“Jack, please, allow Zach to finish,” TJ admonished.

“Fuck you,” Jack spat with fire burning in his eyes. “Zach’s a fucking loony, we all know that.” Zach whimpered in his seat, curling in on himself.

“Jack,” TJ warned, steel in his voice. “Apologise to Zach. You know better than to use that word.”

Jack growled at TJ, who signalled for the nurses at the side. “You think you’re a fucking know-it-all huh, Marchbank?” He shot up from his seat and kicked the plastic chair he was on violently, sending it skidding across the room. The other patients were startled; Zach began to cry.

“Fuck you all!” Jack shouted as he was manhandled by three nurses, two at his side and one lifting his legs. The veins in his neck strained tight, and his face was red with fury as he cursed at them all and was brought out of the room. Shane made a note on the page in front of him: _intermittent explosive disorder?_ He looked up again to see Keith and Ryan next to Zach, calming him down. (He thought Ryan shot him a look of admonition, a look which made him feel like the scum of the earth.)

Next to him, TJ pinched the area between his brows. “Should we end the session for today?”

“Um, Dr. Marchbank?” came a tentative voice and a shyly half-raised hand.

TJ controlled his frustration and schooled his voice into the same gentle tone as before. “What’s wrong, Steven?”

Steven bit his lip, looking over to his friend Andrew to seek for reassurance or confirmation. At Andrew’s firm nod, he continued, “I think Patrick needs to go to the bathroom.”

Sure enough, underneath Patrick’s seat there was a pool of yellowish urine, as more dripped fromthe edge of his chair. TJ allowed himself a sigh.

* * *

“So, Ryan,” Shane began, lacing his fingers atop his wobbly desk. “What would you like to talk about today?”

He had opened the small windows in his office in an attempt to air out the stuffy room, but it provided little relief. The weather was humid, and Shane could feel sweat pooling underneath his arms; he regretted wearing a formal shirt, envying Ryan who could lounge around in simple T-shirts all day.

Ryan scanned his eyes around the room, lips pursing as if perusing it. “You’ve really changed the place, huh?”

“I have?” Shane furrowed his brows, swivelling to look around the room himself.

Ryan pointed to Devon’s plant which he had moved to the desk. “Dr. Joralmon would never allow that to die.”

Shane scoffed playfully at that. “I’ve merely moved it from the window, it’s still getting more than enough sun.” To prove his point, he wiggled his fingers at the ray of sunlight shining directly onto the plant, which was warm enough to scorch him.

“If that plant dies, she’ll kill you,” Ryan said with a smirk.

“I think she’ll be more than a little occupied with her baby,” Shane replied, huffing a stray piece of hair off his forehead.

Ryan shot him a skeptical look, his open demeanour closing off again. “You think?”

“Yes, I do think so.” Shane scratched his chin, pretending to mull over it. He stared at a spot on the ceiling as he spoke casually, “I doubt baby poo will be fun to deal with though. All the fumes may go to her head.”

He heard Ryan huff a laugh, and turned his gaze back to him, catching the tail-end of quirked-up lips. Ryan worked his jaw as he stared at Shane, the doctor could practically see the cogs whirring in the other’s brain. When he asked “You sure she’s on maternity leave?”, his voice was hesitant.

Shane slashed his finger across his chest twice, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” He held up three fingers and placed a hand over his heart for good measure. “Scout’s honour,” he said solemnly, to Ryan’s bark of laughter.

“You’re trying too hard to sell it, man.”

The doctor pursed his lips and shrugged hyperbolically, “Ehh, everyone’s a critic.”

Ryan laughed again, before descending into silence. Shane rested his chin on his laced fingers and leaned forward slightly. “So, you wanna start up the conversation again?” he inquired lightly, and Ryan rolled his eyes.

“You’ve seen my file,” Ryan said like an accusation. “You tell me what we should talk about.”

“I don’t want to talk about the file,” Shane cut in right after Ryan’s statement, head still resting in his hands. He channelled his most sincere look towards him, and hoped the message would get across. “I wanna talk about what you wanna talk about. I wanna get to know you,” he spread his hands towards the other, “if you’d let me.”

Ryan’s brows knitted together and his arms crossed; a defensive posture, Shane noted. He contemplated the doctor’s statement, wondering where the catch was. A shroud of silence fell upon them, and Shane reigned in the impulse to break it. One of the most common errors was to push ahead when the patient was unwilling to, and drown the opportunity for them to speak their thoughts with the sound of the doctor’s own voice. Waiting is as crucial as prompting.

With a visage of pure conflict and the worms of silence crawling beneath his skin, Ryan tipped his head back and sent a prayer of strength to the heavens. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Shane didn’t, but should he tell him the truth? He could lie, he assumed that Ryan did if he was asking the question, and if he commiserated with him, he may have been able to get into his metaphorical good books. Should he lie though? There was always the chance that Ryan might be savvy enough to uncover the truth, and would lose his trust in Shane. “No, I don’t,” he settled on.

“Why not?”

The doctor spread his hands out wide, gesturing to the room at large. “If they do exist, then where are they?”

“Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t real,” Ryan retorted, uncrossing his arms and leaning forwards, clearly invested. “I could say a lot of other things aren’t real just because we can’t see it!”

“Oh yeah, like what?” Shane goaded, glad that Ryan bit.

Ryan tossed his hands up into the air, shaking his head, casting about for an answer. “Like, gravity, for instance.”

Shane stared at him for a beat neutrally, before deadpanning “I can throw an apple.”

At that, Ryan laughed wholeheartedly, unbridled by the walls he had built for himself, and _oh it’s so bright_. “You’re insufferable,” he wheezed, smile stretching out.

“It’s logic, Ryan,” Shane playfully answered, making sure to keep his tone joking and not in total awe.

“So you’re telling me,” Ryan brought his wheezing under control, “that if you heard footsteps in a haunted house,” he held up a finger to stop Shane from interjecting “ _and_ you’re the only one in there, you wouldn’t think that it _may_ be a ghost?”

Shane made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. “I’m just saying, that it could be a thousand other things before I land on ‘ _oh it’s a ghost_!’ ”

“Yeah, like what?” Ryan challenged him with a raised brow.

“Like,” Shane cranked the cogs in his brain, “like things falling over due to the wind, or the heater cranking up.”

“Footsteps caused by the wind?” Ryan exclaimed in disbelief, eyes wide but the smile still holding fast. “How is that even possible?”

“It could be anything! Maybe you heard it wrong, maybe you heard footsteps from a neighbour.”

“I sincerely doubt that would be the case,” Ryan replied with squinted eyes.

It was Shane’s turn to roll his eyes. “Whatever. I still don’t believe that ghosts are real.”

“Maybe if you’d just put down that skeptic mask of yours,” Ryan mimed, gaining glee in teasing the other. “You’d see the truth.”

Shane followed those instructions and mimed his own exaggerated version of tearing off his so-called mask, wheezing for oxygen and making Ryan laugh. “Okay, my mask is off,” he proudly declared through rasps. He took a good look around the room once more, “I don’t see no ghosts, sonny.”

“Oh my god,” Ryan groaned into his hand. “You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s me!” Shane said with a flourish in a normal voice. “Ridiculous Shane, at your service.”

Ryan looked straight at him, and in all seriousness said, “Not snappy enough. You’re gonna need some alliteration.”

“In my self-made derogatory title?” Shane chuckled.

“Yep,” Ryan popped the ‘p’ joyfully. “How about Shameful Shane? It’s got a nice ring to it.”

“Oh now you’re just kink-shaming me,” Shane deadpanned, but leaned forward further and wriggled his brows at Ryan’s choking laughter. “That’s not very nice of you, Ryan.”

Ryan swatted at his shoulder to push him back. “Shut up, Shane.”

* * *

By the third week or so, Shane had fallen into the routine of the institution. At seven-thirty in the morning, the patients were woken up by the nurses and the soothing tones of Edelweiss playing through the speakers. By eight, they would have all completed the exodus to the showers in droves. Breakfast was served from eight-thirty to nine thirty, then it was free time until eleven thirty.

Lunch from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty, then private counselling sessions from twelve-thirty to two-thirty. A half hour break for an early tea, arts and crafts from three to four, group counselling from four to five-thirty. Free time. Dinner from seven-thirty to eight-thirty. Showers from nine to nine-thirty. Free time. Lights out at ten-thirty.

He was also becoming friendlier with both staff and patients. He particularly favoured Mark from the nursing staff, who was unflappable even in the weirdest situations. He cleaned and escorted and helped without a word of complaint, all the while maintaining a warm exuberance. Shane knew TJ from his interning years; it was good to catch up whenever they felt like it instead of planning around their impossible schedules for a change. Adam was mostly quiet, but Shane found that he became more talkative out of the earshot of patients, and had a scathing brand of humour.

The patients on their end, got used to him. Keith, ever the bubbly one, spoke to him more often, and expanded on his repertoire of aliens; his recent one was aliens hiding amongst humans as chickens.

( _“Why would they do so? Isn’t it detrimental if they’re eaten by humans in the end?”_

_“No, no, no, you don’t get it. That’s exactly what they want! If we consume them, they can infiltrate our bodies and lay their eggs into us. It’s foolproof!”_ )

Zach claimed that higher powers would divine future happenings, and would send him messages. Most frequently, he found these messages in his alphabet soup (the only type of soup he would ever drink); but he could also find these messages anywhere else, even in the blue paper squares during arts and crafts. His only caveat was that he could receive only one message a day, as more would be giving him too much divine power, and he could descend into the heavens for that. His delusions of grandeur were staunchly supported by Keith, who believed his every prediction; giving TJ who was in charge of both of them a perpetual headache, and Shane a good laugh.

Ned was still Ned; Shane glanced his file which mentioned the gruesome death of his wife which he witnessed. She was raped and strung up like a piece of meat by the members of a gang Ned owed money to, and was then driven through with a metal pipe in front of Ned until she bled out and died. Perhaps to save himself from the guilt, Ned still believes that she lives, and sees her everywhere. Shane could never seem to get his attention; the blank look in his eyes sometimes filled with an onslaught of tears and unspoken horrors.

Steven and Andrew were always seen together, and Adam confirmed that it was a good bond for both parties. Steven was a shy but optimistic person who always greeted Shane brightly and asked him about his day, flipping their roles. But he suffered from delusions of grandeur, and would sometimes mutter to himself uncontrollably about ‘saving the children’ as his mind wandered, drawing plans and diagrams on how he would be able to save them all by transporting them to the moon. When he came down from his episodes of grandiose mania, he would be shaking with the impossibility of his plan, frustrated and angry, prone to self-harm. The most effective remedy they could find for that so far had been to allow Andrew to comfort him and bring him back down into reality.

Andrew was an enigma himself; he had alogia and was selectively mute to almost everyone but Steven and Adam. He hears multiple warped voices in his head, always telling him to kill himself, but never giving him their names. He doubts they even have names, dubbing them the ‘voices of the universe’. Compared to other patients, Andrew’s case was milder, having attempted self-harm and suicide but was stopped. He always nodded in lieu of a greeting to Shane, and seemed to be most comfortable with Steven; Shane caught him smiling at the other despite his withdrawn and overall ‘fuck-off’ personality.

Then there was Ryan. Ryan would nudge him like they had been doing it for years, would laugh at all his stupid jokes, which made him want to crack more just to see that bright smile and hear that wheezing laugh. Ryan sat with him during their free time, and they chatted about nothing in particular, words disappearing like mist into the stale air, but a lazy warmth would bloom in his chest and travel right down, all the way to his little toes. Ryan took care of the other patients too, in his own way. He played basketball with Steven always, even though the other was bad at it, he gave Andrew his pickles during lunch, he tried comforting Patrick and Ned when their illusions acted up again. He nodded at Zach’s predictions to humour him, he made Keith a tinfoil hat once during arts and crafts because the other was complaining of alien-formed headaches.

( _“Do you believe in aliens, Ryan?”_

_“Yeah, I do. I thought you did too? I mean, you were talking to Keith as if you did.”_

_“I do, but I don’t think a tinfoil hat is going to able to stop them from reading minds.”_

_“You never know! Don’t make that face, hahaha,”_

_“You cannot be serious, Ryan.”_

_“Okay, okay. But if Keith believes that a tinfoil hat could ease his headaches, is that so bad? Everyone’s gotta believe in something, even if it isn’t always real to others.”_

_“Hmm, but illusions aren’t always good…”_

_“If you’re talking about people like Ned and Patrick, I get it okay. But those are things they can’t control. If they could, I’m sure they’d like to see something much better.”_

_“So you know about their illusions?”_

_“Tsk, who do you think I am, Shane? I’m not crazy.”_ )

Shane was becoming more used to the place, but he didn’t think he would ever get used to Ryan.

* * *

The basketball pounded on the court, and the sound of sneakers skidding against the rough surface echoed in the early morning air. Shane pulled his jean jacket closer to himself and huddled in it to escape the cold as he watched the patients chase the orange ball around. Three nurses stood around the court in their pale green scrubs; he picked out Mark from one of them and raised a hand in salute to which the other returned.

Shane ambled his way to the metal bleachers on the side, contemplating for a moment whether to plaster his ass to the cold metal or stand around watching the patients. He decided that his ass could suffer a few minutes of blistering cold in exchange for resting his shaking knees, hissing when he felt the chill seep into his chinos.

On the court, he watched as Steven tried to get past Ryan, but the latter blocked him off expertly and stole the ball, much to the joy of his team. Ryan moved swiftly, bouncing the basketball with good control around the court and even managed to jump high enough for a dunk. Amid the cheers of his own team, Ryan’s ecstatic mien met Shane’s (at Ryan’s growing smile when their eyes met, Shane told himself firmly that it was a trick of the light).

“Morning, Shane,” Ryan greeted happily as he bounded over, relinquishing the basketball to the other players on the court. He was breathing harder than usual, having had a good round of exercise. Shane tried not to focus on how his deep breaths made his chest swell and accentuated his figure.

“Good morning, Ryan,” he replied as cheerfully as possible. He inclined his chin to the court, hands still buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie. “Good game?”

Ryan grinned at him brightly, silhouetted by the amber glow of the rising sun. “Yeah, it was. This seat taken?” he pointed to the bench, which Shane shook his head to and gestured for him to sit. “I’d tell you all about my brilliant plays,” he said as he lowered himself, “but I don’t think you’re the sporty type.”

Shane chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the sides as he raised his hands still in his pockets. “You got me. I’m clueless when it comes to anything regarding sports.”

“Figures,” Ryan snorted, wiping the remaining sweat off his face with the shoulder of his long-sleeved shirt. He looked softer in that article of clothing, like a child. “With your gangly limbs, I’m surprised you can still move like a normal human being.”

“I’m more surprised that you can dunk, short as you are,” Shane easily retorted, keeping his eyes fixed on the court.

Ryan nudged him hard in the ribs, earning a yelp from the doctor. “You’re a bastard,” Ryan said warmly, a little fond.

“That, I do not deny,” Shane rubbed the sore area tenderly. “And you are a short one.”

“You little shit,” Ryan laughed boisterously, shaking his head; and Shane laughed with him. “I can’t believe I have to deal with you when Dr. Joralmon is away.”

Shane scrunched his nose and knitted his brows. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

“Well excuse you,” Ryan teased, pushing his shoulder against his. “I’m an absolute joy to be with.”

“Jury’s still not out yet,” Shane held up his hands in surrender.

Ryan was about to retort, eyes flashing with mirth and a challenge when Steven called for him on the court. He flicked his gaze away from Shane’s (missing the warmth of brown eyes instantly), and swung a hand out to Steven to show that he heard. “I uh, I’m gonna go back now,” he said to Shane’s knees.

“Sure,” the doctor replied, willing Ryan to look at him. “I’ll stay here and try to decipher what all your fancy moves mean.”

Ryan looked back up at him and grinned with a cocked brow. “Fancy moves?”

“Yeah, it’s a lot of fancy and excessive moves to get the ball from one end of the court to another.”

“I’d like to see you try, without any of those fancy moves,” Ryan stretched as he pushed himself up, and Shane diverted his eyes from the silver of bronze skin revealed.

He cleared his throat of the pebble that was inexplicably lodged there. “Pretty sure I could dunk the ball in easily.”

A snort of disbelief. “Sure thing, you giraffe.” With that, Ryan joined the game again, giving Steven a high-five. Shane unconsciously trailed his figure, and was only jerked out of it when he felt the gaze of another person on him. He swivelled slightly to the general direction of it and met Andrew’s dead and flat stare. Andrew slid his gaze to where Ryan and Steven were discussing some moves, and back to Shane’s, noting that the doctor’s lingered on Ryan. An unsaid and faint question formed in the air between them.

* * *

He had three patients. Two of Devon’s milder cases had been reassigned to TJ and Adam respectively, considering that Shane was still quite new to dealing with schizophrenic patients, but he had three main patients that he had to see for consultation every week.

One of them was Brent Bennett, who had been here for close to five years. He was prone to becoming catatonic, and had a history of auditory hallucinations in which he heard the voice of a little girl called “Jamia”. He would hear her crying sometimes, but mostly she told him that he was worthless, that no one loved him, that he was a waste of space, and that he was better off dead. Jamia offered him rather creative ways to kill himself, and he had tried committing suicide multiple times before he was permanently admitted. Brent’s family history indicated that he lived in a perfectionist household, and his parents were notorious for demanding more than a child should have been able to achieve.

Patrick Ward was one of the younger patients. 25 years old, he was still a university student when he was admitted. He suffered from psychotic episodes of hallucinations when he sees the colour combination of black and yellow, prompting him to see a giant spider, whose legs creak with the voices of wailing children. Sometimes, he saw a swarm of bees on the faces of others, and would scream at them to take notice, slapping his hands at the area he thought was covered in them. He could feel it when the bees stung him. He also had negative symptoms of asociality and affective flattening on his bad days. Patrick was an avid user of cannabis, and had tripped his way into many different wards before landing here.

Lastly, Ryan Bergara. 29 years old. Admitted for seven years. Schizophrenic: delusions of persecution. Ryan believes that a group of masked individuals are after him, ones with crossed out eyes and the smiles of clowns. He sees these illusions occasionally, and believes that they want to finish the job by finally killing him. Relatively stable, with the occasional outburst that the clowns have come for him at last; no apparent trigger. Ryan’s mother and father were killed during a burglary gone wrong when he was 22; he was found by the police to have been cradling their corpses and crying, not caring that he was in a pool of blood. History of self-harm: he had slashed his wrists once, looking for the hidden trackers in them when his brother Jake found him and sent him to the doctors.

Shane cupped a hand over his eyes and sighed as he leaned back into the swivel chair. To treat schizophrenic patients, they first had to admit to themselves that their delusions and illusions are false; which in some, is the biggest feat any doctor could hope to accomplish. He hoped that they would come to see reason, in due time, and work on their recovery from there.

“ _Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t real”_ , floated Ryan’s voice distantly in his head. He rolled his shoulder to rid himself of the sinking feeling which pressed down with a vengeance on his chest. 

* * *

He regretted hanging the clock up. When he first found it in one of the dusty boxes in storage, he was overjoyed; he had wanted a clock for his office just to have the choice to tell the time by looking upwards to the wall instead downwards to the face of his watch. Yes, he was weird in that way, but everyone had something weird about them right?

Now though, the steady ticking of the second hand was much too loud in the room. He heard it pulse in his ears even through Ryan’s animated retelling of how Brent, who was unassuming and had almost no experience in basketball, managed to get past him and Steven on the court that morning with an astonishing speed. His ears ached.

“Shane, you okay?” came Ryan’s concerned voice, his brows scrunched tightly. He clicked his fingers in front of Shane’s grimacing face, waking the other up from whatever daydream he had dug himself into, somewhat miffed that he was narrating to air. “Shane,” he tried again, and the doctor smiled sheepishly at him.

“I’m sorry, kinda blanked out there,” Shane said, forcing a more natural smile upon his face even though his palms were sweating with nervous energy.

Ryan gave him a worried once-over, “You sure you’re okay? You look a bit pale, to be honest.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” Shane ran a hand down his face and frowned. He forgot about his sweaty palms. “Just a little tired, maybe.”

“Here,” Ryan plucked two tissues from the box on Shane’s desk and handed it to him, which the other muttered thank you at. “You shouldn’t push yourself too hard, your eye bags would become too heavy to pass the baggage check.”

Shane rolled his eyes and slapped the tissue onto his face, creating a sweaty imprint, much to Ryan’s disgust and laughter. Ryan tossed another wad of tissues at him, “That’s gross.” Shane merely chuckled and began swiping at his face in earnest, heart still going a mile a minute in the confines of his ribcage.

He had to breach the question, make some headway. They were his patients, they deserved to recover from whatever painful illusions they saw, they deserved to be able to live normal lives. They had to be able to take that painful first step into admitting what they think is real, isn’t.

On the other hand, a selfish part of Shane beat against the empty spaces in the rooms of his brain, spitting out the possibility of things that could go wrong, that he could lose Ryan’s smiles forever if he played this wrongly. He swallowed against the urge to laugh at it, to heed its warnings.

“Ryan,” his voice came out strained, he cleared his throat noisily.

“Yeah?” the other smiled lightly at him.

“Can we,” his hand spasmed, and he clutched at it desperately to hide it. “would you like to talk about the people who are after you?”

Ryan’s face immediately darkened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. _Defensive posture_. He cast his eyes away from Shane’s preferring to stare at a spot beside Shane’s head instead. Shane tracked the movement of Ryan’s fingers which dug themselves into the flesh of his arms, and the knot of worry on his glabella. “What don’t you already know?” he ground out, refusing to meet Shane’s gaze.

“Well, why do you think they’re after you?” Shane began, forcefully easing his voice into to the professionally gentle tone they were instructed to use.

Ryan’s frown deepened at that, he hated it when the doctors treated them like easily scared animals. “Didn’t you read my file? It should all be in there,” he spat.

“I’d like to hear it from you,” Shane held up his hands at Ryan’s glare, glad that the other was looking at him at least, “if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Ryan was struggling to control his rising anger. He reminded himself that this was _Shane,_ someone who he now considered a friend. He took a deep breath and exhaled a heavy sigh, hanging his head. “They killed my parents,” he began softly, the images still so clear in his head. He screwed his eyes shut against the red of blood which burst like an overly ripe fruit, the choked off screams, the distinct smell of smoke and the searing of flesh. He could feel the stickiness of blood, how heavy his parents’ bodies were; puppets whose strings had been cut.

He didn’t know when he had begun hyperventilating, when his lungs decided that he needed more oxygen that instant or it would shut down completely. He was only made aware of it when he felt Shane’s large hand on his back, when he heard the cadence of Shane’s voice trying to soothe him. He wrenched his eyes open to the spotty linoleum floor. “I need to lie down,” he managed to force out through the wave of nausea. He grabbed onto Shane’s proffered arm and allowed the other to guide him to the ratty sofa, where he immediately collapsed into.

Shane handed him a mug of water, a mild sense of panic taking over his senses. Had he pushed Ryan too far? Had he made some irreversible mistake? The other was lying on the sofa with an arm over his eyes, breathing heavily. He waited until his breathing had more or less evened out before tapping him lightly on the elbow and offering the water, which the other took gratefully.

Swinging his legs, Ryan pushed himself upright to take a few sips of water, willing his heart to beat slower. He pushed the images back into the bolted trunk in his head, trying to scrub the leftover mess from the inside of his eyes. He felt the warmth of Shane’s hand on his upper arm, and used it to anchor himself to his current reality.

“Ryan,” Shane began, flexing his fingers. “Do you want to end the session here today?”

By some force of stupid bravery (or by the force of how it was Shane asking, not anyone else), he shook his head, taking gulps of water and draining the mug. He handed it back to Shane with a strained, “Cute mug.”

“Thanks,” Shane tried to say chirpily. “I designed it myself.”

“And what’s that supposed to be, a blue Elmo?”

At Shane’s overly dramatic gasp, Ryan felt some of the fear subsiding and managed a weak laugh. “How dare you, Ryan. This is the Professor!”

“The what?”

“The Professor,” Shane rolled his eyes, as if Ryan was sacrilegious enough to have announced he didn’t know who the Beatles were. “He teaches history in an accessible and frank manner for children everywhere!”

“What the hell?” Ryan laughed, taking another look at the cute puppet with glasses and a hat on the mug. “Where does he even live?”

“Right here,” Shane tapped at the side of his head, wriggling his brows. “In the good ol’ Madej noggin.”

Ryan made a grabby action towards the mug, and Shane handed it over with some trepidation. He turned it over in his hands, thumbs brushing against the slightly chipped varnish. In the bright afternoon light, Shane thought he looked mesmerising. “I like his little satchel,” he said at length.

“Why, thank you,” Shane chirped, obviously pleased.

Ryan passed the mug back. “What’s in it?”

Shane looked at the image of the Professor, his creation which never took off since he gave up everything else for his current profession. He remembers sketching its furry little blue form in the margins of university notes, adding dialogue bubbles with tips on top to spice up his revision, especially on those subjects which he loathed. The Professor was sort of his secret companion, but even so he didn’t mind sharing it with Ryan (he wouldn’t mind sharing anything with Ryan as long as the other would smile). “What would you like it to be?”

“It’s not my creation.”

“True, but I’m asking you now.”

Ryan cocked his head to the side, a hand coming to scratch at his chin, his posture of thought. He squinted at the image of the Professor, and Shane adjusted it to face the other more. “Can it be jellybeans?”

Shane felt a slow and uncontrollable smile spread across his own face. It was an unexpectedly innocent answer. “Do you like jellybeans?”

“They’re very nice,” Ryan answered. “Second only to popcorn, though.”

“Ooh, popcorn!” Shane exclaimed, setting the mug down carefully on his desk. “I like ‘em too!”

The rest of the session was used for heated debates over which popcorn was better (they agreed eventually on the unsalted, non-buttery type for that extra crunch), and Shane was torn between feeling guilty for not pushing harder and feeling happy that Ryan had a good time after.

* * *

“Hey Teej?”

The mentioned Dr looked up from his notes, adjusting his glasses. “What’s up Shane?” He looked like death, and Shane bluntly told him so. TJ stuck a tongue out at him.

“Did Devon ever tell you if she managed to talk to her patients about their illusions?”

TJ frowned and lightly scratched his temple with the butt of his black pen; for a moment Shane was terrified his hand would slip and the pen would jab straight into his eye. “I don’t think so? I’m sure she tried to, but you know how it is,” he let the pen drop from his hands, rubbing his eyes with balled fists. “Most of them would prefer living with what they think is real.”

“Right,” he said solemnly, batting away the “ _Everyone’s gotta believe in something, even if it isn’t always real to others_ ,” in Ryan’s voice from his head.

He resolved himself to try again with Ryan next week.

* * *

Patrick saw the spider again, kicking and screaming in the corner of his room in the early hours of the morning. Shane had hurried down the corridors of rooms, avoiding the inquisitive glances of various patients who had stuck their heads out their own doors to get a glimpse of the commotion.

“Patrick?” Shane called firmly as he walked in the room to Patrick’s trembling form, arms covering his head and legs tucked in tight, head between his knees. He knelt down and tried to soothe him, running his hand up and down his back, saying reassuring words to bring him back into reality.

“It’s okay Patrick. It’s okay,” he felt his mouth moving to the words mechanically. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you. They aren’t real, Patrick.” He gripped the patient’s knee tightly as an anchor. “Patrick, they aren’t real.”

Amidst his sobs and low anguished groans, Patrick stuck his hands into his hair and began pulling, which Shane intercepted a beat too late. He fought against Patrick’s grip, trying to release his hold and prevent him from inflicting damage onto himself. Patrick swung his hands away and tried to hit his head on the wall instead, which Shane and a nurse stopped by pulling him away from it. “Let me do it!” he screamed, pulling against their combined hold, neck stretched towards the wall. “I don’t wanna hear it anymore! I don’t wanna hear it!”

“Patrick!” Shane shouted over him as he restrained his patient with all the might he could muster on an empty stomach. “Patrick, listen to me! You’re safe! It’s not real!” He wound his arm across his neck and cradled his head in his hand. “It’s not real, Patrick!”

Something in the patient snapped, a switch abruptly flicked. With an eerie choked-off sob, Patrick slowly slid his terrified and wet eyes to Shane’s, seething “How would you know what’s real?”

* * *

“I don’t know why they’re after me exactly,” Ryan confided, his arms crossed still. He shrugged a shoulder, eyes looking at the grain of the desk and bounced his leg up and down frantically. “They didn’t even need a reason to kill my parents in the first place, why should I doubt if they need one to finish off their last victim?”

Shane fidgeted in his seat; the clock was once again too loud. “Ryan,” he began gently, “do you think that they would have the resources or even a good reason to ki—, to come after you?” He narrowly avoided the word ‘kill’.

“I don’t know,” Ryan persisted, digging his heels in. “But I’ve seen them around, and we’re not buddies who visit each other for tea parties, so that has to count for something right?” He almost shouted that last part, but his eyes widened and he came back to himself. Peeking from the spaces of his fingers, he looked at Shane, and in a small voice asked “Right?”

It was painful to see Ryan so scared and so unsure of himself. He wanted to stop the questioning, go back to talking about some nonsensical thing and make Ryan laugh again, but he also knew that this was for his own good. He tightened the hold on his pen. “Ryan, you are positive that these people who come after you have the masks of clowns, yes?”

Ryan nodded jerkily, he chewed on a thumbnail and shut his eyes to shield himself from the image. “Yes,” he conceded, “their eyes are crossed out too.”

“The men who burglar your family and committed the treacherous act though, were not wearing any such masks,” Shane ploughed on. “Ryan, they were wearing black balaclavas.”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Ryan shouted, banging a fist onto the desk.

Shane raised both his hands, noting how the distress in Ryan’s eyes made his heart twist painfully. He would deal with that later, he had more important things going on. “I know you do, Ryan,” he soothed. “I’m just saying that it’s more likely that these aren’t the same gang of criminals.”

“And they can’t change their look is that it?” Ryan scoffed, looking away to the other end of the room, his jaw working furiously.

“No, not that,” Shane answered, sighing mentally. “The people who committed the crime have been caught Ryan. They’re sitting behind bars and getting the punishment they deserve.”

At that, Ryan whipped his head towards Shane, a fury burning in his eyes. Then, with full intent, he grinned broadly, “They deserve to die.”

Shane ignored the spasm of fear he felt travel down his spine and changed tracks. “Who’s Ricky Goldsworth?”

Ryan shot him a look which said ‘Really?’ and rolled his neck. “I’m Ricky Goldsworth, like you didn’t know about it.”

“I’d just like to confirm it,” Shane said easily, tapping his pen softly against his notepad. “You’ve been transferred from facility to facility, and every time before you go, you’d tell them to ‘Give them Ricky Goldsworth’s love’. What does that mean?”

For a moment, Ryan seemed like he was about to deck Shane in the face rather than give him any form of an answer, but he composed himself, and slumped into his seat. “Ricky Goldsworth,” he drawled, “is the me with a gun.” At Shane’s confused look, Ryan pursed his lips. “It means watch out, it means I’ve escaped them and they’ve escaped me. Because if I get my hands on a gun,” here he brought two fingers up and cocked his thumb, pointing it straight at Shane with a deadly resolve in his eyes, “I’d kill them,” he said darkly. “I’d kill them all.”

Shane gulped involuntarily, and Ryan grinned at the caught action. He cleared his parched throat, “Still Ryan, you must know that no one is after you.”

“How could you say that for certain?” he retorted, angling his chin up in defiance and a challenge. “You know my family was influential, Shane. You know how man people were out to get us.”

“Yes, they were, but—” he cut himself off, guilty of the tears that were beginning to form in Ryan’s eyes. “No one is going to hurt you now,” he tried, hands out and pleading. “Ryan, you’re safe. Not just here, you’re safe.”

Ryan clenched his fists and sent him a dirty look. “You’re just like the rest of them aren’t you?” His voice was clearly strained as he fought to keep it under control. “You think I’m crazy,” he spat, the final word coming out like a curse.

“No!” Shane lunged forwards, arms sprawled across the desk. Channeling the sincerity into his voice, “No, Ryan, I don’t think that.”

Ryan huffed a self-deprecating laugh and directed his gaze downwards, ignoring Shane. “You don’t have to lie to me,” he whispered, barely caught by the other. “Not you, out of all people.”

“Ryan,” Shane pleaded, but he wasn’t entirely sure what for.

“Can I go now?” Ryan asked, still not looking at Shane. His nails were digging crescent moons into his flesh, and he seemed to shrink smaller and smaller into himself.

Shane sighed audibly this time, and dropped back into his seat. He made one last effort to at least have Ryan acknowledge him, but the other wouldn’t change his stance. “Okay,” Shane conceded, allowing some of the disappointment he had to creep into his voice. “You can go now, Ryan.”

Uncharacteristically of him, Ryan stood up without saying another word; something lodged itself between Shane’s ribs and twisted hard. “Ryan,” he called out, half sure that the other would keep walking and slam his way out, but Ryan’s hand paused over the doorknob, hovering. A tense moment passed, Shane could see the pressure wound up in he set of Ryan’s shoulders, and felt his own mounting dread in the pit of his stomach. A soft “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage before Ryan slipped out of the room, bringing all the warmth in it with him.

* * *

He had pushed Ryan too far, he knew that. _But it’s for the sake of helping him. He has to admit that it isn’t real_ he reasoned, walking through the days like a man half-submerged in water. Ryan avoided him whenever he had the chance to; he talked to the other patients or hid himself behind another heavy tome, anything to be out of Shane’s line of sight. Shane didn’t want to press the matter either, knowing that giving his patients space when they needed it was part of the recovery procedure, but it didn’t lessen the sharp ache which found its home in his heart whenever it happened.

“Who would like to go first?” he asked on autopilot, eyes scanning the group and a kind smile fixed on his face. _Standard procedure_. He tried his best not to linger too long on Ryan who sat with his arms crossed in his chair, pointedly looking away from him. He avoided Adam’s quirked brow which asked him what was wrong.

_Come on, someone start. Anyone._ He could feel the ants crawling beneath his skin the longer the silence was maintained, and decided to take a stab in the dark. “Brent, would you like to start?” he asked kindly.

The mentioned patient seemed to jump from his seat, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights. His lips parted and for a moment Shane though that he was _saved_ , but Brent clamped it shut again and stuffed his hands underneath his thighs, shaking his head.

“That’s okay, Brent,” Shane tried to soothe, even though he felt disappointment flood his veins. “Anyone else? Keith?”

Keith pondered about it for a moment, his hand shooting up but aborting halfway. “Not today, Doc. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, thank you Keith.” He held his palms out and gestured to the group at large. “Would anyone else like to share? This is a safe space, so you don’t have to be worry about anything.” Practiced words, practiced smile. A robot.

Silence as the patients fidgeted in their seats and sent glances at one another. Beside him, Adam sat up straighter, ready to intervene if necessary (and Shane hated it when someone did that, as if he was too incompetent to do it on his own, but who was he trying to kid), when a hand shot up.

Shane swallowed thickly, schooling his features from the brief shocked look into a pleasant countenance. “Yes, Ryan?”

“Yeah, I’d like to ask a question, if you don’t mind.”

His voice was kept neutral, and Shane couldn’t decide if he was still angry or sad. Maybe ehe meant nothing from the action, it was all in Shane’s head. “Of course, please.”

Ryan uncrossed his arms and balanced at the edge of his seat; the air around him shifted and the others could sense it too. Shane’s shoulders tensed in anticipation. “Dr. Madej,” (and that hurt more than the avoidance almost all week, that Ryan didn’t think it was good enough to call him by his first name anymore, as if he were a stranger) “how does one discern what is real and what isn’t?”

The palpable tension was thick enough to be sliced with a blunt knife; Shane felt the eyes of every patient on him, the pressure to answer a question which afflicted all of them. “Well, something real is something which actually exists, something that isn’t imaginary or supposed,” he rattled like a dictionary, clawing at the definition he knew.

“If that’s so,” Ryan picked up the baton, eyes challenging, “then who gets to decide what is imaginary and what isn’t? Society?” he scowled.

“In part,” Shane answered, feeling as if he had stepped on a mine. “But reality isn’t so easily explained as the collective agreement of society, it’s grounded in the tangible. It has to exist in our plane and to an extent, it is the aggregate of all that is tangible and existent within our system.” He heard Jack snort “What a pedantic asshole,” under his breath, but paid it no mind.

“So is it wrong when I say that my reality isn’t your reality?” Ryan pressed on. “Because from what you’re saying, reality is something which is perceived, so what happens when the perception of a person is wrong?” Patrick flinched and let out an audible whimper. “What happens when the perception of the majority is flawed?”

“There is an objective reality,” Shane countered, desperation seeping into his stance. “There is the reality of every day life, and it is one which we all exist in and co-inhabit. It is also the most important as our consciousness requires us to be completely aware and attentive, meaning that by living wholly in the moment, we are able to distinguish between what is real and what isn’t.”

Ryan shook his head, and was about to continue when Zach cut in, his voice pitched and almost screeching. “What about the people who don’t believe that God is real? What about their reality without a God in it, even though a lot of people are sure that God exists? You don’t see them locked up!”

“I don’t like this conversation!” Patrick wailed, clutching at the sides of his head.

Jack sneered at them all. “Oh shut up with your stupid theorising!” He stood up like a man about to give a life-changing speech, addressing the group at large. “Can’t you see why we’re here?” He jabbed at his temple harshly, eyeing the other patients. “They think we’re crazy! They think we’re unhinged! They think we’re dangerous!” He whipped around to Shane and Adam, lips curling “Don’t ya, Doc?”

“People fear what they don’t understand, that’s true. But it doesn’t mean that there isn’t something wrong with us.” Shane’s eyes almost bulged out upon recognising the voice as Steven’s. The patient had never been the outspoken one, had always hid behind Andrew or his fingers in uncomfortable situations.

“Huh?” Jack growled, facing Steven with glowing eyes and a snide curl on his lip. “What the fuck do you know, you little shit?”

Not to be daunted, Steven glowered back, despite Andrew flinging an arm across his torso to hold him down. “Better than you,” he retorted steel in his voice as he stared unflinchingly into Jack’s face. “At least I’m not an irascible crackhead whose biggest stimulation is getting a rise out of others with his bullshit bravado.”

“You fucking piece of shit!” Jack screeched, arm pulled back to deliver a punch.

The next bit happened so fast it made Shane’s head spin. Patrick was wailing, toppled over onto the floor, while Zach and Ryan ran to comfort him. Right before Jack’s punch landed, Andrew delivered his own with a snarl, right to Jack’s abdomen with a resounding crack, which knocked the wind out of him and threw him to the ground. Keith started chanting “Chicken aliens! Chicken aliens are controlling our minds!” on loop, as Adam restrained Andrew, but not before he got a kick in to Jack’s stomach; Ned laughed and clapped his hands, telling his wife what fun it was as the nurses swooped in to tend to Jack, Patrick and to help restrain Andrew.

Shane dropped his pen and sat dumbly through it all, a slow-motion play and a building sense of horror. Inaction. From the ashes of the mess, he sought out Ryan unconsciously, and forced himself not to hurl all over the floor at the look of disbelief and disappointment there.

* * *

**Is reality a consensual hallucination?**

**And is a nervous breakdown in fact a _refusal_ to consent?**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Tune in for the next chapter, hopefully posted soon. 
> 
> I treasure all your kudos and comments, thank you! 
> 
> (I will post all my references in the final chapter.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for staying to read this chapter too! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I love all music, especially the emo/alt rock genre. All opinions are by the fictional characters themselves, pls don't @ me lol. 
> 
> Speaking of, plenty of music references and actual episode references in this chapter, see if you can spot them all. 
> 
> Also the chapter where things start to fray, sooooooooo.... 
> 
> (If anyone knows where the quote is from to, please do comment! I'd like to give them proper credit, but I can't remember where I heard it before and Google isn't helping)

* * *

**There I was again,**

**Knowing full well what I wasn’t,**

**But not at all what I was.**

_~ ???_

* * *

The end result was more peaceful than Shane could have hoped for, in that no one had any life-threatening injuries. He had calmed Patrick down amidst his wails of reality being a lie, and had restrained himself from bursting out at Ryan’s careless question (because he knew deep down that it wasn’t the question that was at the root of the problem, it was his inability to answer well and the flaws of the system).

Jack received medical treatment (which no one thought he deserve, but being human meant a lot of things), and both he and Andrew were given two days of solitary confinement for their behaviour according to the token economy procedure, which was basically being confined to their rooms like an adult version of a time-out. Shane was extra careful around a mopey Steven who jumped at the slightest things and looked so lost, out of place, without Andrew by his side, even though Adam tried his best to fill it.

( _“Andrew, are you okay?”_

_“Yeah, I’m… I’m not crazy Adam.”_

_“… I know.”_

_“I’m not crazy.”_ )

After a while, things settled back into their routine without a hitch, as if nothing had ever happened.

* * *

Shane hated the board of directors, not only for their pompousness and overt nepotism, but also because they sent him a very last minute notice to meet with them for his performance review. He wagered that they had heard about the incident with his inability in handling Ryan’s questioning, resulting in a full-blown panic which could have set the recovery of their patients back. He notified the other doctors about it, receiving pitying looks from them, and tips on how to avoid the verbal traps that the board would no doubt set up for him.

Instead of driving through the copse of trees to the institution the day of, Shane manoeuvred his car around the congested city streets, cursing at other drivers and listening to the music he had picked out so long ago with ambivalent feelings. The slight drizzle which beat on the roof of his car hardly calmed the staccato of his heart; just made the whole ordeal more depressing than it had any right to be.

He watched the red taillights of cars crawl forward lethargically, mind drifting off to a certain pair of intelligent dark eyes and a bright smile. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel and turned up his music louder, jabbing the ‘next’ button with too much force as the dulcet tones of “505” by Arctic Monkeys streamed through the speakers.

When he reached the idiotically sleek and shiny building where he was to meet with the old fogies, his light blazer was spattered with rain, and he thanked his past self for not wearing his best suede shoes. Waiting in the obsequiously plush lounge for his turn, even though he was on time; knocking on the scented faux wooden door which boasted a wealth of power and knowledge; coming face to face with wrinkled but not any wizened faces in the room; answering their questions with a practiced smile, the smile he used on all his patients; hands clenched tightly together behind his back.

The whole ordeal lasted around three hours as they grilled him on his work in a new facility, his personal life. But the chaotic incident was never mentioned, not hide nor hair seen. He was puzzled by the lack of reports to the old crones (not that he was complaining about escaping), and he wondered if they even cared truly about the health of their patients. They probably cared more about the money coming in.

Steering the car through traffic again, listlessly waiting for the endless lines to move as the rain poured harder and drenched the world in a dull monotone, fingers drumming on the steering wheel with impatience; he hadn’t felt this normal in a long time. Back there, in the institution, he hadn’t felt completely in control of himself, as if he was playing a role required of him (but which was the role and which was his true self; the lines had begun to blur). The bright light emanating from Ryan’s smile seeped into his mind again, and he glared at the cheerful number plate decorated with stickers of hearts and cats in front of him; he only felt that he wasn’t pretending when he was with him.

* * *

As he parked his old and creaking car into his designated spot, he slumped forward, bumping his head against the steering wheel, mindful of not blasting the horn. It was already later than he had planned, close to lights out; the shadows of trees curled over the building like claws. He gathered his things from the mess of papers and old takeout boxes from the backseat, hastily slamming the car door closed , and made the short trudge to the now imposing building.

He was somewhat miffed that the board hadn’t summoned him next week, as it would have been his weekend off. As he unlocked the rusted back door which led to the stairwell closest to his office, he wondered if TJ was already asleep in one of the resting rooms. He grumbled all the way, and grumbled some more when he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror; a member of the undead in a crumpled but otherwise pristine suit.

Knocking on the open door to TJ’s office, he was surprised the other was still up; he had his nose in a pile of patient records and was making things down. “Teej?” But TJ was absorbed completely in his work, murmuring a string of words to himself as he thumbed his temple. Shane moved silently, slinking across the room and coming to a stop in front of the other, who had not noticed him at all. He bent downwards slightly, and blew a gust of cold air into the other’s ear, startling him with a sharp cry of “Jesus Christ Almighty!”

He couldn’t help the laugh which bubbled from his throat, wheezing at TJ’s wide eyes and heavy breathing, the way some of his papers flew to the floor. If looks could kill, TJ would’ve murdered him ten times over. “Fuck you, Madej,” he said a little breathlessly.

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Shane replied casually before collapsing into the empty seat meant for patients. All the seats were uncomfortable.

TJ grumbled curses under his breath as he bent to pick up his fallen papers. “You and your fucking weird sense of humour.” He straightened the white sheets and sat back down. “So how did it go?”

Shane shrugged in what he hoped conveyed a sense of ‘meh, it was okay’ to the other. TJ arched a brow at him, but didn’t push it. “Anything out of the ordinary Teej?”

“No, not really,” he answered with a pursed lip, attention already back onto the papers. “You should get some sleep though, you look dead.”

“What’s new,” Shane sighed dramatically, hanging his head off the back of the chair.

TJ looked up from his papers at Shane who was staring at the wall and frowned. Shane was a tremendously good keeper of secrets, and TJ had been frustrated at that ability ever since they were interns. He would let a sore fester and fester without a single indication of his pain, until the time was ripe for a whole limb to be amputated. Even then, Shane’s trademark was that infuriatingly perfect smile he hid behind. He wished that his friend wasn’t so stubborn. “If you can’t sleep though,” he groused, tossing a few folders to Shane’s side of the desk, “then help me with these.”

Although he complained in a whiny tone about TJ being a slave-driver, TJ could see that Shane was secretly grateful by the way he desperately grabbed at the folders, possibly glad for something to do, to distract his mind with.

* * *

Shane ambled into the canteen the next morning, shuffling his feet across the tiles and rubbing at his eyes. He noted blearily that Keith was wearing his tinfoil hat that Ryan made for him, and braced himself for a whole group session of chicken aliens; either aliens hiding as chickens, or the new chickens were always aliens theory. His head pounded at the mere thought.

Sliding into a seat further away from the patients with his back to them, he held his head between hands for a moment, just to ease the pain, before nodding to Flores behind the serving counter. She always brought him a serving of breakfast in the mornings, which he was immensely grateful for (he pretended not to see how she bat her lashes at him), but he craved a cup of coffee badly. He wished he had the energy to push himself up and ask for one, but his eyes were blinking slower and slower, slipping into dreamland amidst the pounding of drums in his head.

He didn’t notice Ryan’s worried frown from the other side of the room where he sat with Steven and Andrew. He didn’t notice Ryan going up to the serving counter to talk to Flores, pointing at Shane. He didn’t notice Ryan moving towards him until he head the soft landing of a ceramic mug, and looked up with half-mast eyes and knitted brows in confusion, then down to the chipped red mug filled with dark liquid. Ryan brought him coffee. (He should not have felt so happy.) “Is this for me?” he drawled forcibly, but his voice was a bit too bright at the edges, betraying his feelings.

“You’re going to die if you don’t take a sip within the next second,” Ryan easily said, batting away the part of his mind which loudly proclaimed that a sleepy Shane looked like a cute sloth.

Shane dragged the mug across the light blue plastic table, and sniffed it tentatively. He turned to Ryan with the most serious expression he could muster while sleep-deprived, “You didn’t spike this with anything did you?”

Ryan’s grin was broad and infectious. “What do you think, Madej?”

“Even if you did,” Shane wound his fingers around the mug, “this is practically godsend.” He took a sip and released a low groan of pleasure at the caffeine which hit his system, prompting him to gulp it down like a madman.

“You’re freaking crazy!” Ryan whispered in mock-disgust, peering into the empty mug as Shane burped and chuckled. “Maybe you should see someone for your caffeine addiction.”

Shane waved the notion away. “No one can fix that. But seriously,” he met Ryan’s eyes (those eyes he missed so much) and smiled sincerely, “Thank you for the coffee.”

Ryan swallowed through the lump that had formed in his throat, fingers curling in on themselves. “You’re welcome,” he never thought he would’ve been able to see that smile again, the one which made Shane’s eyes crinkle at the edges like well-worn paper. “You look dead, by the way.”

“Yeah, I know,” the other chuckled, rubbing his face with a hand.

“Are you okay?” Something about Shane was off, more so than usual, and it wasn’t just the strained lack of interaction between them. Ryan didn’t exactly feel guilty for avoiding Shane, but he was worried by the other’s clear exhaustion, the way his shoulders slumped forward and the dazed look in his eyes.

Shane slid his gaze back down to the mug (it was easier to address the inanimate), but drummed up enough courage to meet the other’s eyes again. “Are we okay?”

Ryan chewed on his bottom lip, unaware of the cacophony of panic whirling in Shane’s mind, but acutely aware of his own. Were they okay? Shane was doing his job in asking him all those questions, just like Devon did. _But Shane isn’t Devon_. He considered the awkward and gangly person before him as his friend more than he did as his doctor. He thought that Shane of all people would understand. He wasn’t crazy. Ryan sighed, letting the weight of weeks slough off his shoulders. If it meant that he could have Shane’s companionship back, he would take anything he could. “Yeah, we’re okay.”

At Shane’s ever-widening grin, Ryan couldn’t bring himself to regret his choice.

* * *

The sessions proceeded more smoothly after, even though he knew that Ryan was holding out a lot from him. They would shoot the breeze for a while before Shane would slip in some questions about what he saw, who were the masked men, and how was he going to prevent them from finding him.

To his credit, Ryan didn’t have another panic attack, since he was more or less prepared for those questions. He controlled his thoughts as best as he could, filtering the gore and the pain from his mind’s eye; but couldn’t quite stop the flood of anguish and the feeling of being alone every time. He had resorted to compulsive actions like the biting of nails and shaking his leg to block the emotions, which Shane reminded him of and stopped.

Ryan didn’t hope that Shane could truly understand the terror of living day-to-day in dreadful anticipation anymore. The masked men were for him to deal with, regardless of whether or not other people believe in him, whether or not they called him crazy. (But it didn’t hurt any less whenever he saw the doubt in Shane’s eyes, whenever the other tried to bring his reasonings down. He reminded himself as best as he could that Shane was doing his job.) Ryan focused on treating the sessions like an exercise, and revelled in whatever time they spent together outside of those stuffy procedures; the only times when he felt that his laugh wasn’t forced.

( _“Do you think you’re safe here?”_

_“From them? Well, they haven’t come around to pay me a visit so far, have they?”_

_“What would you do if they did?”_

_“… I’d escape, like always. Transfer to another place if I can’t be let out.”_

_“Don’t you like it here?”_

_“Of course I do. But what else can I do?”_

_“You could stay.”_

_“And wait for them to blow my head off or poison me? I’d rather not.”_

_“Ryan, they’re not coming after you.”_

_“They are, Shane. And I’m the only one who knows that.”_ )

* * *

He tapped the side of Brent’s cold cheek gently, trying to wake him up. “Brent, can you hear me?” Brent stared blankly ahead, slumped on the ground. He had most likely been getting out of bed when he slipped into an akinetic catatonic state. “Brent?” Shane called again, “can you follow my finger?” No eye movement.

Shane shoved his unwaxed hair up in an attempt to keep it from falling across his eyes. He really needed a haircut one of these days, he was starting to look like a hippie. “Brent? Do you know what day it is today?”

Brent was unresponsive, but his breathing and heartbeat were both steady. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw one of the nurses shift uncomfortable from foot to foot. “Could you help me lift him up please?” Relieved for something to do, the nurse did as he was told, he and Shane hoisting Brent up onto the bed and laid him down upright.

“Brent?” Shane tried again. “Do you know what’s for breakfast this morning?”

“Do you know what’s for breakfast this morning?” Brent repeated in a neutral whisper, eyes blank.

“It’s waffles. We’re having waffles and some lovely citrus tea today, Brent,” Shane leaned in to say. “You can come join us whenever you’d like okay? I’ll ask Flores to save some for you.” He patted the patient’s shoulder warmly, and was about to leave, when he felt fingers tugging at the end of his shirt.

Brent stared at him with blank eyes still, but his mouth moved and formed the words which solidified in the cool air. “This is a prison.”

* * *

Adam had been called up to meet the board of directors next, but something barred him from returning before the light went out of the sky. “The road sunk in, but they’re repairing it. I don’t think I can make it back by tonight, or tomorrow,” his voice which came through the phone had a tinny and faraway quality to it, magnified by it being put on loudspeaker. “I’m really sorry, but could you please take over tonight, TJ?”

Shane saw TJ nod out of the corner of his eye, before replying a quick “Sure,” and reassuring Adam that he would have the paperwork done and to make sure the patients didn’t burn the whole building down. “Stay safe,” Shane ended with, before hearing Adam’s long sigh and terminating the call.

* * *

Someone tapped him on the shoulder as he was making his rounds through the hallways, and he jumped a tad at the touch. “Andrew?” The patient seemed more haggard than usual, his hair pushed up and tousled in what Shane assumed to be frustration, but the flatness of his eyes didn’t change. “Is there something wrong?”

Andrew swivelled his head around to make sure they were out of earshot, but the corners of his lips turned down at Ned still lingering close-by, gesturing animatedly to the air and speaking about his day. In a swift move, he grabbed Shane by the arm and pulled them to the end of the hallway, tossing them through the first door he saw.

“Andrew, what are you doing?” Shane hissed as his eyes blinked in the darkness, only for them to be seared by the blinding light as Andrew flicked on the switch. He rubbed at his eyes while grimacing, trying to focus them on the patient. “Andrew, why are we in the supply closet?”

The patient held up a finger to his mouth to silence him, and put his ear to the door, listening. Satisfied that he heard no one near, he faced Shane with an intensity the doctor hadn’t seen since the incident. The cogs in his mind wheeled around rapidly, jaw working.

Shane modulated his voice, “Andrew, you can tell me if there’s something wrong. I know Adam isn’t here, but you can tell me.” How had Adam ever won Andrew’s trust, Shane did not know, but the patient’s selective mutism was working against him. He briefly entertained the fantasy of using rudimentary sign language to encourage him.

Andrew’s brows knitted, fighting a conflict within himself. With fists balled at his sides, he reluctantly ground out, “Dr. Madej, I need a favour.”

Eyebrows shooting up, “Just Shane, please. What favour?” He was surprised at how Andrew’s voice sounded, much lower and gravelly than he would’ve thought.

A pause and squinted eyes, as if he didn’t quite trust the doctor yet. But the urgency was bearing down upon him, and he had to try. “I need you to disable the cameras for ten minutes at eleven, and ten at seven-fifteen, so that I can get to Steven’s room.”

“What?” Shane breathed, mind still processing the information. He huffed a laugh to diffuse the growing dread in him. “Andrew, what are you talking about?”

“Look,” he pressed, desperation colouring his voice, his eyes more alive than Shane had ever seen. “Steven gets sleep terrors alright? He wakes up screaming all the time, plagued by the monsters he’s seen, and if I’m not there to help him, he’ll drive himself into a corner.”

“That’s something that we can help him with,” Shane reasoned, confused at Andrew’s plan but understanding the need to protect the person one cares about. He gently laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder to ground him. “You don’t have to worry about it Andrew, we’ll be there for him.”

Andrew clicked his tongue and shoved Shane’s hand away. “You don’t get it do you? I need to be there for him,” he pleaded, voice cracking. “The last two times I wasn’t, and I regret that every second of every day, okay? You need to let me be there for him.”

“Andrew,” Shane soothed, palms up. “We’re here to take care of both you and Steven. We’re here for everyone.” He searched for any sign of consent on the other’s face, noting the signals of distress. “Trust us.”

“No!” Andrew hissed, baring his teeth. Shocked at his outburst, he took a breath to compose himself, pinching the area between his brows. “Steven needs me,” he enunciated. He opened his eyes again to face Shane’s. “Adam knows about this.”

“Dr. Bianchi let you do this?” Shane couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. Wasn’t this just another delusion on the patient’s part?

Andrew’s eyes flashed suddenly, finding something in Shane’s own visage. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Shane bit back a sarcastic remark. “No, Andrew, I don’t. But I find it incredibly hard to believe that Dr. Bianchi would do such a thing.”

Rubbing both hands on his face, Andrew groaned in ever-mounting frustration. “You don’t have to lie,” came his muffled voice. He released his hands from his face. “If no one thought I was crazy, it would defeat the whole purpose?”

“What purpose?” Shane echoed dumbly. His mind couldn’t catch up, was the patient experiencing tangentiality? He did seem rather disorganised at the moment.

As if he had the eerie power of reading Shane’s thoughts, Andrew scowled. “No, I’m not disorganised. No, this isn’t tangentiality or loose association in speech, alright.”

“I never said that.”

“You were thinking it, it’s written all over your face,” Andrew accused, drawing a circle with his pointer finger. “I’m not crazy, but I have studied crazy, trust me.”

_How could I? You’re the one who’s in here._ Shane cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s better if we talk about this elsewhere.” He eyed the metal shelves stocked with toilet roles for emphasis. “I don’t think cleaning supplies make for a conducive discussion environment.”

Immediately, Andrew leaned with his back against the door. “Not until you agree.”

“Andrew,” Shane began.

“I know this sounds crazy,” Andrew sighed, hands up as if to brace his argument. “But you’ve gotta trust me on this. I’m not a crazy person, I just want to make sure Steven is okay.”

“And I’ve told you,” Shane said exasperatedly, “that we will take care of him.”

Andrew ran a hand through his hair and flung his hands up in defeat. “Clearly, this isn’t working.”

“Clearly,” Shane snarked, irritated by Andrew’s behaviour and the heat in the supply closet.

“Shane, I’m not crazy.” Something in Andrew’s tone shifted minutely. He held the doctor’s gaze with as much sincerity as possible, knowing that he would have to give him an explanation that he had only told Adam. He had to take the chance. “I’m going to tell you the truth, but you have to promise to keep it under wraps, okay?”

Shane squinted his eyes at him. “Okay,” he acquiesced, but Andrew shook his head.

“You have to promise. This isn’t a prank, and it isn’t the ramblings of a crazy man.” He stared at Shane, hoping to cover the gravity of the situation. “This affects real people.”

“I promise,” Shane said, but he was more than ready to dismiss the explanations. This is what schizophrenic patients did. Delusions, warped realities, false truths. It wasn’t his first rodeo with them. _“Everyone’s gotta believe in something, even if it isn’t always real to others”. Shut up, Ryan._

This was for Steven’s sake ( _when had anything been the contrary?_ ); he hoped that Shane could understand and Adam would help explain things when he returned. “I don’t have illusions or delusions. I don’t have any other positive or negative symptoms. I’ve no disorganisation, and I don’t have any psychotic episodes.” At Shane’s increasingly confused face, he ploughed on. “I staged my attempts at self-harm and suicide. Adam and I faked my records.”

After a few tense moments, Shane let out a bark of disbelief, moving towards the door, but Andrew shoved him back. “Let go, Andrew,” he said with a firmness in his voice. “Haven’t you had enough of your fun?”

“Listen to me,” Andrew restated, matching Shane’s firmness in tone, increasing in pace. “We faked my records because I had to get in here. I couldn’t leave Steven alone again, not when he’s vulnerable like this.”

“And what would you like me to think, Andrew?” Shane exclaimed. “That you two staged an elaborate plan to admit you into psychiatric care, which we both know is horrible by the way, in order to what,” he gestured nonsensically into the air, “to be with Steven?”

“You’ve read our files,” Andrew insisted, still barring the door. “You know what we’ve done and who we are.”

“Yes, I do know, Andrew. But your relationship with Steven before you two were admitted doesn’t justify breaking specific rules for safety for!”

“It does, Shane. It does.” Andrew moved forwards a little, enough to force his presence into Shane’s personal bubble. “I wasn’t there for him,” he said in a harsh whisper, face twisted in pain. “When he needed help, I wasn’t there for him, okay?” The memories which never truly rid themselves came to the forefront of his mind, flooding him with guilt so heavy it asphyxiated him.

He grabbed the front of Shane’s shirt in a vice, which made the other scrabble at his hands to push him away, but he held on. “Steven had to watch as some of the hostages were killed.” He shook Shane a couple of times. “He watched them take the children and skin their faces off. He was the one those bastards made to call the police and describe to them _exactly_ what was going on.” With another shake, he shoved Shane backwards, causing the other to stumble.

Shane knew all of this from the files, but the pure look of horror and regret on Andrew’s face, the whisper of his voice as if he were afraid that saying it would be reliving it, made it all the more real. He straightened the front of his shirt and watched Andrew pace about the small space, hand in his hair.

Steven Lim was one of the hostages of a bank heist. He was the one who the criminals made to call the police, to taunt them and relay their demands. Steven Lim was one of the six hostages who survived. The other eight were killed by the hour, four of them children below the ages of 12. His mental health deteriorated rapidly, and was reported to have jumped off a bridge four months later in an attempt to kill himself, but miraculously survived. He was brought in for a diagnosis by his partner Andrew Ilnyckyj, and was admitted by Dr. Adam Bianchi into the care of the institution; diagnosed with schizophrenia.

“Did you total your car on purpose?” Shane questioned, staring intently at the other for any lies.

Andrew looked back at him with a defiance in his eyes. “It’s better if there’s a direct link to trauma right?” he asked rhetorically. “It helped in the credibility department. Ticked more boxes for crazy.”

“What if you had died?”

Andrew shrugged it off, “I didn’t.” The thought of death’s shadow which had swirled around in his mind that night, with his knuckles white on the steering wheel, his heart threatening to jump out of its cavity. The ditch which he had to swerve into was dark and ominous, an abyss which was waiting to swallow him whole. But then he thought of Steven, crying out for help, curled on the bed and shivering because he couldn’t run away from the ghosts that haunted him, and it gave him the will he needed. This was nothing compared to it. “It’s the only way I can help him, Shane.”

The doctor crossed his arms. “Not that I’m not impressed by your stupidly brave and completely idiotic sacrifices for love,”

“Gee, thanks,” Andrew deadpanned.

“But I’m not going to disable the security cameras just so you can sneak into your boyfriend’s room.”

Andrew was this close to throttling the other, and it must have shown on his face, because Shane shot him a cocky smirk. That’s fine, he expected this; he had one more card to play. “If it was Ryan, wouldn’t you do the same?”

Shane stiffened immediately, eyes narrowing. “I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Andrew replied sweetly. “Anyone who has eyes can see that you care for each other. Deeply.”

“He’s my patient, Andrew.”

“And you’re his doctor. So? We’re not going into ethics here.”

“There is a fine line bet—”

“Then look me in the eye, and tell me that you don’t love him,” Andrew pushed.

Shane worked his jaw, the words glued to roof of his mouth. “I don’t,” he forced out, but his voice wavered hesitantly and came out tasting like a red hot lie, something which Andrew caught easily.

“You do,” came the verdict, and Shane couldn’t find it in himself to deny it.

* * *

He paused the cameras at eleven, after making sure that TJ was occupied with some paperwork. The door mercifully, did not creak behind him, and he left the surveillance room without anyone bearing down on him. At the hallway of the patients’ rooms, he stopped, leaning against the wall half to keep a lookout, half to see if Andrew hadn’t really played an elaborate prank on him.

A door opened, and in the low light, he saw Andrew scurry down the hallway, lightly knocking on Steven’s door, before it opened and he disappeared into it.

( _“Hey, Andrew,” Steven greeted from his cross-legged posture on the bed. In truth, he was worried about their arrangement since Adam was announced to be held up in the city. He wished that he wasn’t so dependent on the people around him, but the terrors didn’t leave him alone, and preyed on the most vulnerable parts of his mind at night when his defences were down. At the sight of Andrew though, the knot of fear that had coiled up in his chest all evening loosened, and he thought not for the last time how much he loved the person before him. He patted the empty space next to him on the bed._

_Andrew felt the smile crawl onto his face before he even had the door fully closed. He strode across the few steps hurriedly, leaning down to press a firm kiss to other’s cheek, making him giggle. “Hey, Steven.” He nuzzled into the other’s shoulder, letting his chin rest on the juncture between it and Steven’s neck._

_Steven carded his fingers through Andrew’s hair, grinning, a sheen of tears glistening in his eyes. “I can’t believe you managed to convince him.”_

_Andrew pulled away slightly, overturned a palm and lifted his shoulders. “I’m magic.”_

_“You’re crazy,” Steven laughed softly into the night, planting a chaste kiss on the other’s lips, hands cradling his jaw tenderly._

_Andrew surged forward, curling an arm around Steven’s waist to press deeper into the kiss, which the other reciprocated and wound his own arms around his torso. “Only for you,” he breathed into it, pulling back and kissing Steven repeatedly. “Only for you.”_ )

Shane signed, allowing himself to bury his face in a hand for a few seconds. Gritting his teeth, he made one round of the hallways, then returned to surveillance room to un-pause the recording.

Guilt and love so strong it drove a man to fake his insanity, just so he could be with his lover. Wasn’t that in itself crazy? He closed the door gently behind him, peered into TJ’s office where the doctor was still poring over paperwork, and went into his own. He dug out the heavy copy of the DSM-5 book wedged between other references on the shelf, and blew the dust off of it, coughing at the cloud which threatened to choke him. He flipped through the pages until it landed on Schizophrenic Spectrums and Other Psychotic Disorders, smoothing it out on his desk, his eyes riveted to the title.

_“If it was Ryan, wouldn’t you do the same?”_ Logically, he wouldn’t; but he knew his heart, knew how much of a hopeless romantic he was. Of course he would, _anything_ , to be closer to Ryan, to help him.

He located the list of symptoms for schizophrenic patients, headers for each highlighted in a luminescent yellow. Diagnosis by ticking off a list of criteria. Putting people in boxes. Organisation. Safety. Recovery.

Prison.

* * *

“Thanks,” Adam said without preamble as they sipped on their coffees in the dayroom, watching the patients for any abnormalities.

They were both facing forward. “Is it true then?” Shane asked, glancing briefly at Adam who was staring into his mug, like Zach who claimed he could see messages in his alphabet soup.

Adam’s face was impassive, then the corner of his lip quirked up, and he faced Shane. “As impossible as it sounds, yes it is.”

Shane nodded, bottom lip sticking out, and took another sip. Without meeting Adam’s deceptive doe eyes, “Do you think it’s ethical?”

“Do you think our system is perfect?” Adam countered, setting his mug down on the pedestal where a vase used to be. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “At the end of the day, we’re all just doing what we think is right.”

Shane supposed at a level that was true. “What even is right?” he mumbled into his coffee.

Adam shrugged. “Zach could probably tell you that, with a personalised message sent from God.”

Shane snorted into his coffee, ignoring the weird looks the patients gave him.

* * *

“You listen to Mamma Mia?” Ryan asked, a tone crossed between pleasant surprise and disgust.

Shane snatched the screen of his monitor back, swinging it to face him. “Don’t be nosy,” he admonished, pushing away Ryan’s hands which attempted to swing it back. “And yes, as a matter of fact I do listen to it. It’s a wonderful song!”

Ryan snickered at his defensiveness. “I never said it was a bad song, I was just surprised that’s all.”

“What part of the gorgeous me,” he gestured with a flourish from head to toe, eliciting wheezes from the other, “says that I don’t fangirl over ABBA?”

“Okay, one”, Ryan held up a finger, “you are not as gorgeous as you are yourself out to be, you gangly Sasquatch.” He laughed at Shane’s childish decision to stick the tip of his tongue out. “And two, I didn’t know cryptids even listened to ABBA.” He put on his thinking face, just to piss Shane off. “Do you think the Mothman jams out to Nirvana?”

It was Shane’s turn to wheeze uncontrollable, slamming his hand on the desk. “Maybe he went through an emo phase, like ‘ _Mom, I’m not Satanic, this is good music!_ ’ ”

Ryan pitched his voice annoyingly high, “ ‘ _You don’t understand mom! This is who I am!_ ’ ”

“ ‘ _It’s not a phase mom! It represents the pain of my soul!_ ’ ” Shane matched, sending them into a fit of giggles. They laughed and coughed as their threats dried, faces red with mirth, shoulders shaking to contain it in vain.

“We’re,” Ryan wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “we’re horrible people.”

Shane calmed himself down enough to look at Ryan with a somewhat serious visage. “ ‘ _It’s not emo, it’s rock and roll!_ ’ ” he screeched, which dissolved them into another round of laughter, this one more violent than the last.

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan forced out through his laughter, taking deep breaths.

“Don’t forget the Almighty!” chimed Shane cheerily, twirling a finger in the air.

Ryan shoved at his long legs under the table with his own “Shut up, Shane,” he admonished in an overly fond tone.

They held each other’s gazes for a beat too long as they came down from their laughing high, but it didn’t feel too awkward or forced. Shane grinned at Ryan, jumping up from his seat and hitting the play button on Mamma Mia, the sounds of the piano intro filling the room. “Come on,” he urged and held his hands out towards Ryan.

“Are you serious?” Ryan laughed boisterously, eyebrows high up on his face.

Shane just took him by the hands and pulled him up. “Come on, baby!” he exclaimed over Ryan’s squawk of protest, swinging their hands together and doing the jitterbug. Ryan playfully fought against his hold initially, but gave in and followed the flow.

“Mamma Mia, here I go again! My, my how can I resist you?” Shane sang in an overly deep voice with vibrato.

“Mamma Mia, does it show again? My, my just how much I missed you?” Ryan continued as he spun them around maniacally.

“Yes I’ve been broken hearted!” they sang and emulated the dance moves of the original music video. “Blue since the day we parted!” They jumped to face each other again, grins wide on their faces, hair tousled. “Why, why, did I ever let you go?”

Shane made a pleading gesture towards the heavens, fingers clasped together in an Italian gesture, “Mamma mia,”

Ryan laid a hand on his forehead and swooned dramatically, “Now I really know,”

“My, my,” they clasped their hands together, and spread one outwards in the shape of a fan, “I should not have let you go!”

Shane was the first to laugh, followed by Ryan; their giggles and wheezes drowning out the music still playing in the background. He felt light and happy, genuinely happy, as he watched Ryan wheeze for air again, hands on his knees, doubled over from the pain of laughing. He wanted to capture this moment forever. “Fun, huh?” he enthused.

“You’re an idiot,” Ryan laughed, clutching at his stomach.

“Yeah, but you love me,” Shane teased. He could feel the heat crawl up the back of his neck at the slip, but decided to play it off.

Ryan’s eyes were clear and fond, the tips of his ears reddening, “Unfortunately, yes.”

* * *

“Yes, Steven?” Adam gestured that the floor was his.

Steven smiled nervously, his fingers already wringing together in his lap. “I’ve got a suggestion, since it’s already late fall.” Andrew touched his elbow gently, an unobtrusive and silent reassurance and Steven smiled at him gratefully for that. He addressed the group at large, “I think we should have a little get-together for Thanksgiving. Patients and staff, sharing food and stories.”

From the other end, Jack scoffed and rolled his eyes, but was quickly silenced by a stern look from Adam and a murderous glare from Andrew.

“I think that’ll be swell!” Keith exclaimed, bouncing on his seat. “We can have a huge turkey, just like my momma used to make!”

“Turkey?” Patrick was practically salivating all over the floor.

Keith waggled his eyebrows at him, “Oh yeah, one big and juicy turkey for the whole family.”

With a comically motivated and serious tone, Patrick faced both Adam and Shane, “I think we should all do the idea.”

“Can we have mashed potatoes too? I love mashed potatoes,” Zach volunteered.

“And pudding!” shouted Ned, pointing to the space behind him. “Ariel loves pudding!”

Brent was content to nod along with their decisions, though he still retained a faraway look in his eyes.

Andrew tugged on Steven’s arm to pull him closer, and whispered something into his ear, to which Steven smiled brightly at. “Andrew thinks it’s a good idea too,” he happily announced, as the other nodded solemnly.

Ryan laughed and threw in his vote for carrying out the idea as well.

Adam adjusted his glasses (Shane though he saw the hint of a smile hidden in his beard), “Well, it’s not a bad suggestion, Steven.”

“It’s a great idea!” piped Keith.

Adam pretended to mull over it, the patients on the edge of their seats, waiting for judgement. “Shane, do you agree?”

Startled at the ball being passed to him, Shane floundered with his notebook. “I think it’ll be a,”

his eyes met Ryan’s across the circle, “I think it’ll be a good time.”

“We’d have to ask Dr. Marchbank and the rest of the staff members as well, so your request,” he eyes the patients kindly from the top of his glasses, “is now pending.”

Keith let out a whoop of joy, as though the idea had already been approved.

Ryan caught Shane’s gaze again and rolled this eyes; private smiles on their faces.

* * *

“That was good,” Andrew praised as he and Steven stacked up he chairs from the session. The plastic legs of them hitting each other made a jarring staccato.

“Thank you,” Steven returned, laughing a little when Andrew gave him a swift peck on the cheek.

Without looking up from the notes he was rearranging, Adam gave an exaggerated sigh. “You two are gross,” he said matter of factly, ignoring Steven’s indignant shout of “Hey!” and Andrew giving him the middle finger. He hid his smile behind his notebook.

“I wonder if Jack would participate willingly,” Steven mulled.

Andrew clicked his tongue, irritation apparent at the name. “If that idiotic, shallow, unicellular protozoan of a crackhead doesn’t, then it’s his loss.”

“Whoa, dishing out the adjectives there.”

“That’s what they call me, Adjective Andrew,” he sang as he wriggled a brow.

“No one calls you that, you narcissist,” Adam chimed in, to Steven’s laugh and Andrew’s indignant gasp.

Steven pushed the chairs to the side of the room, worrying his lip, brows scrunched. In what was almost a whisper, gaze not leaving the brown plastic chairs, “I hope it works out.” Fingers drumming on the plastic, “Everyone deserves something nice. To feel normal again, even if it’s just for one night.”

“It will,” Andrew said confidently, coming to wrap an arm around Steven’s waist, giving him a chaste kiss. Adam made a sound of agreement and nodded from his perch. “And on the impossibility that it doesn’t, you can blame Adam for doing a poor job of organising it."

Adam calmly flipped the bird at Andrew to the other’s bark of laughter, Steven smacking his partner on the shoulder in admonishment. “I’m the mule who works tirelessly, you bully,” he stated mock haughtily, snapping his book shut.

“And that’s why out of the three of us, you’re the one with the PhD,” Andrew retorted.

“I’m not the one who decided to major in film school, of all things.”

Steven shook his head at the ceiling, praying for strength. “Can you two stop bickering like an old married couple already?”

“Aww, don’t tell me you’re jealous,” Andrew teased, causing Steven to frown at his smirk which looked like the cat which got the milk.

Adam huffed. “It’s not like you’re much of a catch, Ilnyckyj.”

“Ehh, he’s got a nice butt,” Steven conceded with a casual shrug.

“You think I have a nice butt?” Andrew asked with laughter tinting his voice.

Adam groaned in pain and pressed a hand to his downturned mouth, “Gross. It’s almost like watching your parents slathering each other in mushy feelings. ”

Steven winked and blew him a kiss while Andrew collapsed into laughter, hiding it in Steven’s shoulder.

* * *

TJ had told them in a rush that morning about a new patient who was to be admitted in the afternoon.

“New patient?” Shane echoed. He didn’t know that they were still accepting patients, considering the capacity of the institution.

“I say new, but it’s actually more like old,” TJ responded, clicking away on the monitor. “It’s a readmission of sorts.”

“Relapse?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Adam wrote something down in his notes, then crossed it out. “You think he stopped taking the proper amount of medication in his residual stage?”

“That seems to be the only explanation.” TJ sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, removing his glasses. “Knowing him, he hates the meds enough to do that.”

Adam hummed. “He was doing so well.”

“Shame,” TJ continued.

“Was he one of your patients, Teej?”

“Yeah.” Shane thought he could hear the regret in his voice, the guilt from failing to help his patient recover completely. “Yeah, he was.”

The patient’s dusty file was open on TJ’s desk, and Shane dragged it closer to him with a finger to read the particulars. “Cotard’s syndrome? That’s rare,” he scratched his chin, stubble prickly against the flesh of his fingers.

“He also thinks he can see the shroud of death hanging over a person,” TJ added, still stuck on his monitor.

“Like the Grim Reaper?”

“Like a cartoon dark cloud hanging over the person who is about to die.”

Adam clocked in to what Shane wanted to ask next seamlessly. “He predicted the death of one of the patients before, one William Kuniochi, who was especially hebephrenic. Died about,” he trailed off, trying to recall the case.

“A week later,” TJ helped. “Heart attack from excessive adrenaline.”

Shane frowned. “Trigger?”

“Unknown, which is the weirdest part.”

“A man who sees the shadow of death,” Shane mused, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “Sounds like a comic book character.”

Adam looked out from the window to the court where the patients were playing basketball. “You have no idea.”

* * *

Eugene Lee Yang was escorted by TJ into the dayroom, to the wild cacophony of gasps from the patients and the barrage of questions they rained on the newcomer. Zach was one of the first to sprint towards him, arms wrapping around his torso tightly and practically sobbing into his shirt. TJ wisely stepped back, just as Keith and Ned both launched themselves at Eugene, much to the newcomer’s fond annoyance.

Ryan offered him a firm hug after Eugene managed to extricate himself from the stifling group hug. Something passed between them and they nodded in understanding. “Threw out your pills huh?” Ryan asked rhetorically.

Eugene cocked his head and pushed his lips. “They tasted like shit and made me feel like shit anyway.”

“Ayy, preach it man,” Steven shot him finger guns before pulling the other into a tight hug, which elicited a quack of protest from Eugene, hands scrabbling. Beside them, Andrew patted Eugene’s shoulder firmly. Steven shot him a warm smile as he pulled away. “I’d say it’s nice to see you back, but it really isn’t.”

“You fucking rat,” Eugene laughed at Steven’s shit-eating grin. “It’s not that nice to be back either.”

Zach jumped from the sidelines. “You didn’t miss us?” His voice was small and hurt.

“Aww now look what you’ve done,” Ryan mock admonished.

Eugene huffed a piece of hair from his forehead as he rolled his eyes, reaching out for Zach who reached out instinctively back. “You guys are the only things I miss from here,” he said sincerely.

“Our little boy is growing up,” Keith sobbed in giant and fake wails.

Ned continued with the bit, patting Keith on the shoulder, who leaned down to press his forehead into Ned’s. “He’s grown so much,” he screeched in a high-pitched voice, pretending to dab at tears.

“Oh fuck you!” Eugene exclaimed with feeling, and everyone broke into a laugh. He nodded to Patrick who was curled up on one of the sofas and Brent who stared into space. “Bad day, guys?” Patrick’s eyes flicked to his and he lifted his palms in a ‘what-can-you-do’ gesture, while Brent kept staring straight ahead.

Ryan snapped his fingers, a metaphorical lightbulb coming to life over his head. “Almost forgot, you haven’t met the new doctor!’

Eugene scrunched his nose. “There’s another one?”

“Now, now, dear son, don’t be rude,” Ned screeched, trying to pat Eugene’s hair as the other dodged.

Keith nodded with his bottom lip sticking out. “That’s right, listen to your mother.”

“A fully Asian dude from two fully Caucasian parents?” Steven sniggered.

“Miracles happen, Steven!” Keith exclaimed, then put a finger to his lips in thought. “Or maybe he was sent to us by aliens.”

“You’re still not over that?” Eugene asked in exasperation.

Amidst the friendly bickering, Ryan waved Shane over, his hand sticking out from the nucleus of the group. Shane smiled to himself at how short he looked compared to the others, and ambled his way over. “Eugene,” Ryan called to grab his attention, and gestured to Shane who stood outside their little reunion. “This is Dr. Shane Madej."

Eugene paled instantly.

“Eugene?” Zach asked from his side, tugging at his shirt sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

“Dr. uh, Shane?” Eugene asked, eyes wide with the fear of knowledge. Ryan moved subconsciously closer to Shane, as if he could block the words which came from Eugene’s mouth. “Are you feeling okay?”

Shane was puzzled at first, but the conversation with TJ clicked in his mind as he caught the other’s shocked eyes from the other side of the group. “I’m fine, thank you Eugene.”

“That’s good,” Eugene’s voice was strained. He smacked a hand over his eyes, rubbing them harshly, before blinking them open again.

“Eugene, would you like to sit down?” TJ intervened, coming to the rescue.

Shane saw Eugene whisper frantically into TJ’s ear, saw the cautious fear in his friend’s eyes. Beside him, Ryan clenched his hand. “Shane,” he began, his chest knotted with worry.

“I’m fine,” he reassured with a careful smile, palm extremely warm against Ryan’s, even though their linked hands were hidden by the mass of bodies in front of them. He had to believe he was fine, didn’t he? If not for his sake, then at the very least, for the sake of Ryan who looked as fearful as whenever the men in clown masks were mentioned.

* * *

Jack was practically dragged out kicking of his room by the nurses into the canteen, where Flores and the other cooks had prepared a storm. Steven’s idea for a meal had been put into practice, and the serving counter was stocked to the brim with various dishes; mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, colourful salads drizzled in olive oil and thousand island sauce, a tower of cupcakes frosted in pastels, a large tub of raspberry jam, platters of devilled eggs (which were the first to be devoured), chocolate and coffee biscuits, strawberry Jell-O, that one pack of Oreos Shane dug from his desk drawer(which no one touched), a variety of pies graciously brought by Adam, TJ’s homemade vanilla fudge (which was sinfully good with anything you dipped into it), and of course the piece de resistance: a giant turkey stuffed with herbs and a smaller turkey.

Shane praised the cooks, “You’ve really outdone yourselves,” ignoring the flirty looks Flores sent him and the slightly murderous ones of Ryan’s. The canteen was strung with fairy lights and the patients’ autumn-themes crafts; yellow and orange leaves, and a masterfully made cartoon turkey with different coloured feathers and a hat by Steven; every decoration careful to avoid the colour combinations of black and yellow together. The patients and the staff members were all more or less mingling, laughing over their plates of food and the sweet citrus drinks.

Mark stood by the bowl of punch, sipping quietly on his. Shane raised an eyebrow at him and gestured to the lively conversations taking place at the many little tables, transformed for the night with checkered table-cloths and a battery operated candle at each one; but Mark show his head. “I don’t need anyone spiking the punch,” he declared coolly. “I can’t handle drunk patients and staff.”

“You make it sound like the staff are worse,” Shane chuckled into his second bite of blueberry pie.

Mark gave him a neutral look. “You don’t know the half of it,” he muttered into his plastic cup, and Shane decided there and then he really did not.

Feeling a nudge against his arm, he spun around, already knowing how it was. “Have you had the pies?”

Ryan eyed the plate of pie the other was holding. “Are they good?”

“Oh yeah, they’re extremely delicious. Pies made by Pie Hole are the best!” He swung his fork in an arc in the air, “Ephemeral and effervescent, an absolute joy in your mouth.”

“Is this whole gathering sponsored by Pie Hole?” Ryan’s face looked like the one he’d pull after he ate something sour.

“No,” Shane said in all seriousness, “but my life is.”

“Shut up, Shane,” Ryan laughed, shaking his head. Shane melted a little at how his dark eyes gleamed underneath the warm light, and how relaxed he looked, holding a plastic up in hand, his beanie fitting him snugly. “Give me some of that pie.”

“Sure,” without thinking too much about it, he speared off a piece of pie and lifted it to Ryan’s mouth, causing the other to blush a pretty shade of red. “Oh!” Shane exclaimed softly as his brain kicked back online, and his fingers spasmed erratically. “Sorry, uhh,” he fumbled with the fork, turning it to face the other, but Ryan opened his mouth despite the brief flash of conflict on his face. Gulping noisily to his own ears, Shane adjusted his grip on the fork, sliding the pie gently into Ryan’s wet and waiting mouth and _oh my fucking god I’m a fucking pervert stop stop stop_. He watched hungrily as Ryan closed his lips over the piece of pie, lifted it off from the fork and chewed on it.

“It’s pretty good,” Ryan conceded after a few bites with a couple of nods, his whole face on fire. He tried to tell his heart to slow down, to breathe, before he spontaneously combusted. Didn’t need to give them another reason to call him crazy.

Shane hastily cast his gaze back to the pie in his hands and took a bite, acutely aware of how Ryan had wrapped his lips on the fork that was now in his mouth and _now he was really starting to sound like a teenage girl_. “Glad you like it,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

Ryan cleared his throat after swallowing the mix of dough and blueberry, not really tasting any of it. “Fun party, huh?”

Shane scrabbled at the line tossed to him gratefully, scanning the room. Keith had his tinfoil hat on and was telling an audience of nurses about multiple facts about aliens ( _the government is in cahoots with them, for sure!_ ); Ned who was talking to the space next to him and an awkwardly smiling Brent; Zach who had his arm looped around Eugene’s as they coaxed Patrick to try some new foods, with the help of other nurses; Jack who was sulking in the corner; TJ who was surrounded by the female cooks and nurses (Shane will always stand by the fact that TJ is oblivious to himself being a ladies’ man); Steven and Andrew who shared a large plate of food between them, discussing the merits and qualities of each as Adam shook his head fondly at them and occasionally stole from their loot. “As fun as it could be,” he replied, realising that he sounded content.

Ryan grinned up brightly at him (threatening to give Shane a heart attack with how dazzling it was), “You got a plan to make it better?” He challenged with a raised brow.

“I always do,” Shane sang, holding up a finger as he fished out his phone and strolled into the dayroom, Ryan trailing behind him. Locating one of the radio speakers, he searched dizzily around for a cable, emitting a triumphed ‘aha!’ when he did. He plugged it in and the sweet, sweet tones of “Cornerstone” by the Arctic Monkeys filtered into the room.

“Shane,” Ryan said exasperatedly, a smile barely there on his face. “No one can’t dance to this.”

“Well, excuse you, Alex Turner did,” he sniffed. “Plus, one can dance to anything; if one is good enough.” He swung his arms out languidly to match the tune, Ryan laughing at him.

“You look like you’re drowning, you ass,” Ryan kicked at his shins. “How about this time, since there are other people around, you play something more normal.”

His heart warmed at the drop of ‘ _other people_ ’, as though Ryan considered them to be a unit. “Fine, fine,” he groused, scrolling through the music library on his phone. “You kids and your picky vibes.” His thumb landed on something which made him grin, knowing Ryan would appreciate it.

At the peppy and energetic sounds of the trumpets and drums, Ryan’s face immediately perked up., his eyes comically wide “Holy shit, are you playing the—”

“Axeman’s jazz, baby!” Shane confirmed with a smirk, sweeping Ryan into a swing, then lowering him down as he did his own improvised dance moves.

“I cannot fucking believe you,” Ryan laughed still, his cheeks tinted pinkish. “Only someone as crazy as you would play Don’t Scare me Papa in a psychiatric facility.” By this time, the other patients and staff members had peeked their heads in. Some of them joined in gleefully, feet tapping away on the worn carpet. He saw Andrew giving Steven a twirl and Ned jitterbugging it out of the corner of his eye.

Shane took his hand, pulling the other in for a brief moment before letting Ryan go, repeating the move at the other’s hysterical bark of a laugh, and dipping him just as the song hit its crescendo, to Ryan’s slightly nervous giggle.

“You’re crazy,” Ryan huffed as Shane pulled them both back upright, cheeks hurting from smiling so much.

“Oh that’s ironic,” Shane drawled in a Southern accent, which earned him a punch on the arm. Something unfurled in his chest, his hand still holding Ryan’s even as the music switched jarringly to Johnny B Goode; something sharp and painful but also refreshing. Something he didn’t want to put a name to. (He didn’t notice Adam staring at them from the side of the room, didn’t see TJ’s raised brows and blatant attempt to avoid disturbing them by encouraging Jack from the other room to join in. All he could see were a pair of dark eyes, a lovely smile, and the person he adored in front of him.)

* * *

It was way past midnight by the time the celebration died down; patients were being carted off to their rooms while the staff packed up. The cooks had already cleared out, thanking the patients and staff who helped them clean the dishes, though everyone made a soapy mess on the floor. The rest of them were either put to take the decorations down or give the floor a good sweep before everything started up as usual again tomorrow.

Shane handed his broom over to one of the nurses to be taken back to the supply closet before walking down the hallway to the patients’ quarters. With his hands stuffed in the pockets of his chinos, he came to a stop at the row of wide windows overlooking the car park, the forest looming beyond which looked softer than he ever knew. Maybe it was the influence of good food and fun company, but he felt buzzed, a joy fizzing in his veins which prevented him from calming down.

Flexing his right hand, he could still feel the phantom shape of Ryan’s own, lingering. He brought it up to cover his mouth with, internally cringing at himself as he thought that he could leech some of Ryan’s warmth from it. _I’m the one going crazy_ , he smiled to himself, hidden by his hand.

“Fly me to the moon,” he sang below a whisper, replacing his hand into his pocket as he looked at the dim moon in the sky, partially obscured by rolling clouds. “Fill my heart with song, let me sing forevermore,” he kicked at nothing, feeling the need to shift underneath his tightening skin, the pressing of wings fluttering in his stomach. “You are all I long for, all I worship and adore,” he couldn’t stop the permanent smile he had as he looked back down onto the ground. “In other words,” he trailed off, fingers twitching, wanting the tender touch of Ryan’s hand in his again.

“Hey Shane!”

He jolted at the voice, at the tingle it managed to send down his spine like no other. Ryan was silhouetted against the warm light from the dayroom down the hallway; it made him look like an angel. “Yeah?” he called back as the other made his way toward him, willing his hands not to shake. _Oh god, he was so far gone_.

Ryan was around the midpoint of the distance between them when Shane saw something flash out of the corner of his eye. He felt Ryan’s hands pushing him down roughly before he heard the other’s panicked shout of “Get down!”; the impact of his head hitting the hard floor momentarily dazing him as he saw Ryan crouch over him, shielding him from something.

“What the hell?” His tongue was a little slow in catching up, but he found no major injury as he felt around the back of his head; the other hand coming around to wrap itself around Ryan’s back. It stilled as it felt the bits of glass there. “What the hell,” he repeated as tried to sit up, Ryan pushing him back down.

“What the fuck are you doing, stay down,” he hissed, a fire in his eyes. The sort that Shane had ever saw when the topic of his prosecutors came up.

“Ryan,” Shane tried to soothe, winding the fingers of a hand with the other’s. He pushed his shoulders off the floor to get a better look of things, and swallowed heavily at the shattered glass of the window where he had been standing. Next to them, a few feet away, was a large rock.

“Ryan! Shane!” TJ shouted, skidding to a stop and crouching down to them. “Are you guys okay?” He brushed the pieces of glass off Ryan’s back and pulled them up into sitting positions, muttering ‘careful, careful’ under his breath.

“What,” Adam choked out as he clocked the broken window and the rock. He stuck his head out of the window, scanning the copse of trees in the near distance, speaking into his phone frantically.

“Ryan, are you okay?” Shane asked gently as he brushed stray pieces of glass from the other’s hair. He surreptitiously ran a thumb over the other’s wrist; his heart was beating much too fast, but so was his own. He didn’t address the loosened knot of relief he felt when he saw no visible injuries on the other. “Ryan, you could’ve been hurt.”

“They’re here,” his voice was barely above a whisper, eyes wide in pure terror. He gripped Shane’s hand tighter, but it shook like a leaf in the wind. “They’ve come to get me, and,” he turned to Shane, guilt in his eyes “they know about you,” he strangled.

“Ryan, no one’s here,” TJ reassured, slipping back into his professional tone as he gripped one of his shoulders.

“There was a man in a mask!” Ryan erupted, throwing TJ’s hand off. “He threw that damn thing right at Shane’s head!”

“I’m positive it was just some hooligan playing a prank,” TJ reasoned, hands out in front of him.

Ryan made a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. “By almost killing Shane?”

“A lot of juvenile delinquents tend to like vandalising things.”

“In the middle of fucking nowhere?” Ryan’s voice was becoming more and more frantic, his grip on Shane’s hand unrelenting and painful.

TJ sighed tiredly. “No one’s out to harm you, Ryan.”

“Bullshit,” he sneered, baring his teeth. In that moment, he truly looked dangerous. “I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of putting a bullet in my head.”

“Shane, help me out here?” TJ pleaded, but Shane couldn’t reply. Because in that tiny window of time between Ryan pushing him down and his back hitting the floor, he thought he saw the sinister red glow of a painted smile and the shadow of crossed eyes.

* * *

**There I was again,**

**Knowing full well what I wasn’t,**

**But not at all what I was.**

_~ ???_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> The last chapter will bring about the end as we know it in a nice little bow, please do stay tuned for that!  
> Also, if you like the concept of this fic or this fic in general, please do share it on other platforms or to your friends! (Yes, I'm hungry for more people to read and hopefully gain something from it, especially on mental illnesses.) 
> 
> Song references: 
> 
> 1\. 505 - Arctic Monkeys  
> (but check out this very well-made Shyan vid with this song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frtIk6YteCI) 
> 
> 2\. Mamma Mia - ABBA 
> 
> 3\. Cornerstone - Arctic Monkeys 
> 
> 4\. Axman's Jazz - this version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeC5yr--CdQ
> 
> 5\. Johnny B. Goode - Chuck Berry 
> 
> 6\. Fly me to the moon - Frank Sinatra


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done! 
> 
> Thank you so much for joining me on this ride, thank you for all your kudos and comments!   
> I hope you enjoyed the fic as much as I did.

**Maybe one can’t condemn another person,**

**Only their actions.**

_~_ Edward St. Aubyn _, Patrick Melrose_

* * *

It wasn’t real; it was just the light. It had been dark outside, and everything happened quickly, so quickly that he must’ve juxtaposed the image conjured by the fear in Ryan’s voice onto a hoodlum’s. It had to be it.

_I am not going crazy_.

They shepherded the patients to their rooms, Adam taking charge of notifying security while some of the nurses cleaned up the shattered pieces of glass which glinted with a sneer underneath the thin moonlight. Shane had his hands full with a trembling and frightened Ryan. Even after he had settled the other onto the squeaky mattress of his bed, Ryan’s eyes were still wide with fear, his hands balled up into fists.

Shane knelt down in front of him despite the pain throbbing at the back of his head, and wound his hands around Ryan’s, gently trying to pry them open, but Ryan resisted. No, more like he wasn’t aware of his actions, still locked in a prison of his own making. Shane sighed heavily, brought a hand up to rest at the back of Ryan’s neck, stroking lightly. “Ryan, it’s okay now. There’s no one here.”

He watched the Adam’s apple of Ryan’s throat bob up and down, met a pair of terrified dark eyes, pupils blown wide. One of Ryan’s fists unclenched, and he caught Shane’s hand in a death grip. The doctor tried not to let flinch show. “I’m sorry,” he whispered frantically, gaze darting across Shane’s face as he tightened his grip. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for, Ryan,” Shane continued stroking his neck. “No one was hurt.”

“But you could’ve been,” his voice was strained, like a string pulled too taut. His lifted his hand, as if to touch the other, but drew back as the realisation hit. “Shane, they’re here because of me. You could’ve been killed,” he said with pained eyes.

Giving into the impulse, Shane ran his thumb over Ryan’s eyebrow, and cupped his cheek softly. Looking unwaveringly into the other’s eyes, “I’m okay, Ryan.” His fingers moved minutely against scratchy stubble. “They’re not real. The men is masks aren’t going to come after you.”

“Bullshit,” Ryan hissed, wriggling out of Shane’s hold violently. “How the fuck do you explain what happened then?”

Shane held out his hand placatingly, slightly hurt at how abrupt he was brushed off. “It was a prank, Ryan. Someone just had too much time on their hands and decided that throwing rocks and breaking stuff may help alleviate it.” He paused, taking in the fear still apparent in the way Ryan held himself, and his heart constricted. Why did Ryan have to live like this? It wasn’t fair. “No one is out to get you, you know that right?”

In an unexpectedly swift move, Ryan grabbed Shane’s collar, roughly pulling him downwards, eyes searching for something on his face. In a low and accusatory whisper, “You saw it, didn’t you?”

Shane would deny the sliver of dread and fear that slid down his spine, like a bucket of ice cold water. “Saw what, Ryan?”

Ryan bared his teeth at him, and instead of pushing him back, pulled him closer. Shane could feel every ragged breath the other took, could discern thin waves of brown woven into the dark of Ryan’s eyes. “Admit it, Shane. You saw it. You saw a man in a mask,”

“No, Ryan, I didn’t.”

“You saw a painted red smile—,”

“No, I—,”

“And crossed out eyes—,”

“No!” For a moment, both were shocked into silence at Shane’s outburst. Running a hand through his hair and forcing himself to recover, forcing himself to forget the sinister look he _thought_ he saw, “I didn’t see it.”

“Lies,” Ryan spat, finally shoving the other away as he too moved further by pushing himself backwards on the bed till he hit the wall. “You fucking liar.”

Shane felt the frustration and the heaviness of the lie weight him down. “I didn’t see anything, Ryan,” he said as best as he could levelly. “It was so dark out, I couldn’t even get a good look of the perp’s face.”

Ryan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I don’t believe you,” he confessed to the rumpled sheets on his bed.

“What’s there not to believe?”

With an eerie composure, he turned to look back up at Shane, a hollowness in his eyes. “Why don’t you believe that the masked men exist then?”

“Evidence proves the contrary,” Shane modulated his voice into something which was not the shout he wished to bellow. “No such people exist.”

“How would you know?” Ryan growled, literally growled at Shane, who was taken aback by the promise of violence in the undercurrent of that tone.

The ever-growing pit of frustration and _fear_ which had curled in his chest ever since the flash of red caught his eye at the window burst. “They’re not real, Ryan! It’s all in your head!” he exclaimed as a finger jabbed the side of his temple. “Your mind is playing tricks on you, has always been playing tricks on you, and you’ve let it.” He surged forward to grab at the other’s hands in his own, but Ryan resisted and pushed him away roughly. He persisted though, and managed to clumsily wrap their hands together, “Ryan, none of it is real,” he pleaded. He didn’t really know just how much he needed Ryan to admit it, to dispel the ugly red glow from his own mind.

Ryan was still, but his thoughts were churning. “You’re just like the rest of them,” he snarled, pulling his hands back to himself, ignoring the hurt look on Shane’s face. “You don’t believe me. You think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Shane quickly cut in. He was already weary at the age-old argument. “But I don’t think that you’re rational when it comes to your traumatised fears either,” he sighed into his hands.

It was a sucker punch right below the belt. “ _Traumatised fears_?” Ryan grated out. He shook his head in disbelief, a hand covering his mouth to guard against the poison threatening to drip out. When he met Shane’s tired eyes, he couldn’t find it in him to be sympathetic. “Fuck you,” he spat, with all the energy he had left. “Fuck. You.”

“Ryan,” the other began wearily, his hand reaching out again, but Ryan slapped it away; the ringing echo of the smack reverberating against the walls of the room.

“If you die, just because you won’t accept the reality of the situation, then that’s on you,” he declared with a finality, through the sour taste in his mouth and his internal voice begging him to stop. “Don’t talk to me anymore, you disbelieving fuck.”

“Ryan,” Shane tried, but the other had bundled himself up into a blanket like a burrito to block out the sound. He shook him lightly while calling his name, but the patient was unresponsive to him, fighting back every attempt.

Throwing up his hands into the air, Shane resisted the urge to have the last word as he left. He paused at the door, hand coming to rest on the doorframe as he looked with longing at the white bundle of blankets which shone like a chrysalis in the dark. He didn’t want to fight with Ryan, he didn’t want this gulf to exist between them, but pushing him would be detrimental. He swallowed the guilt and dread, relaying orders to Mark to keep an extra eye on Ryan that night.

* * *

He was woken up with a jolt from the bed, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat. He wiped at his forehead then his face with the edge of the white blanket, shuddering still, greedily sucking in air for his deprived lungs.

It was a dream. A nightmare.

The red of a painted smile, crossed out eyes, the barrel of a gun pinned right to the side of his head. He could still feel the jarring cold of the metal to his overheated skin, his body prepared for flight, not fight. He could still see Ryan’s eyes on him, slightly hollow, mostly condemning, those dark eyes he loved so much even though the owner of them stared at him like scum. “ _If you die_ ,” he heard the voice, Ryan’s voice, bounce around in his head even though the Ryan in front of him hadn’t moved an inch, “ _then that’s on you_.”

The masked man pressed the gun harder into his temple, digging it into his skull. He felt his skinand flesh give way, tearing like sheets of bread; he felt the cold metal of the gun break through his skull, the leftover pieces crumbling like biscuits; felt the cold metal tip touching the dark parts of his brain. He couldn’t hear his own scream, but he felt the soreness of his throat, clocked the viscous liquid sliding down his face and dripping onto his jeans in thick rivulets. His vision of Ryan was blurry, obscured by tears, but he could make out the way he mouthed the words; a curse. “ _Who’s crazy now?_ ”

Slamming an arm over his eyes, Shane groaned into the stale air of the rest room, willing his heart to stop racing, willing the images out of his head. “ _I’m not crazy_ ,” he said to himself in his head. “I’m not crazy,” he repeated to himself aloud, as if it were more real that way.

* * *

In a repeat of the first time Shane refuted the existence of the masked men, Ryan avoided him like the plague. He was barely receptive at Shane’s promptings, just gave him a polite nod now and then without ever looking into his eyes. Shane tried to bait him with food, stories and basketball, to no effect, Ryan maintaining his silence even during private counselling sessions. By the end of the week, he felt as if he had exhausted all options.

There were some nights when Ryan woke up shouting bloody murder at the men in masks, limbs flailing and fists ready to pound them and anyone else who got too close to him to a pulp (Shane would know, he received one right in the leg when he was alerted by the nurses; it had hurt bruised into a lurid yellow). Shane shook him awake, hands scrabbling for purchase at the slick of Ryan’s sweat-drenched shirt, practically screaming his name to bring him back; it was always the worst when the other was like this, lost at sea in the midst of his own nightmares, unable to return to reality. When he did, his eyes wide but hollow, Shane had to reign himself in from pressing a tight hug around the other.

But his stubborn silence during sessions frustrated the doctor so much, that he was tempted to trade patients with either Adam or TJ even though it was against the basest rules. He couldn’t stand it, the looking but not attaining. The canyon which had gaped open between them, and which grew ever wider as the days passed them by.

( _Adam had spoken to Ryan about it one morning on the court, when the latter was mildly distracted._

_“Why don’t you talk to Shane? I’m sure he’s not mad at you,” he slipped in casually, careful not to look at Ryan directly lest he scare him away._

_The bouncing of the ball on the court, an orange blur, before he passed it to someone else. “I know.”_

_Adam hummed, watching the other players scramble for it. “But?” he prompted._

_Ryan gave a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at the area between his furrowed brows. “I don’t want them to hurt him,” he admitted in a small voice, breath becoming wisps of smoke. “I don’t want him to get hurt because of me.”_ )

* * *

On top of his patient freezing him out, Shane was battling with his own perceptions. He told no one about what he potentially saw that night, even though he knew it to be a fact that it was nothing out of the ordinary. He convinced himself that it was a misconception, that he wasn’t about to become one of the first cases of folie à deux between doctor and patient on the coast.

_It’s not real_ , became his mantra whenever the nightmares invaded his mind, increasing in vividness each time. He would press his hands to his eyes to banish them, the blood and smoke, the hollow eyes, a painted smile, crosses. Into the dark recesses of his brain they would go. _It’s not real._

He said nothing to his friends about it, pretended that his heavy eye bags and pale skin was due to overwork and the stress of managing his patients, waving their well-meaning concerns off. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” he would say, smiling through the acid pinpricks of a lie behind his teeth.

He told no one about the shadows he saw sometimes, elongated and lurking in the corners of the institution; a trick of the eye, the sun dipping down or rising slowly from its perch behind the hills. He blinked twice when he thought he saw a red crescent moon glow hovering next to his car one night, only to find that nothing, _no one_ , was there; and wiped the sweat from his palms onto his jeans, ignoring the way they shook when he tried to stab his keys into the ignition panel.

The man on the street wasn’t wearing that wretched mask as he passed by, neither was that woman. There wasn’t a soul waiting for him in the parking lot to his apartment, not even ones with red smiles and crosses for eyes. He rubbed his own as he tumbled out of the car, feeling his heckles rise, more likely due to the cold than anything else. It made sense, he thought, since the weather had cooled considerably, the leaves changing colours. He pulled the collar of his jacket closer, hurried into his house, slamming the door shut much harder than necessary. His breathing was hitched and rapid, and he noticed he had forgotten his bag, still sitting in his car; but decided to retrieve it tomorrow. Not that he was afraid or anything. He wasn’t, he was just being practical.

He pretended he didn’t jump when he thought he saw someone standing behind the shower curtains; pretended that he didn’t think that someone in a mask would bring a knife raining down upon him as he closed his eyes to wash his hair. He pretended that he didn’t keep his back to the walls of his own apartment like an idiot, bumping into things with eyes bolted forward, at all the openings like a dark corner, the heavy curtains or the door which part of him thought would explode any moment. He pretended that he didn’t curl into the blankets tighter, pretended that he didn’t make sure his feet were completely tucked in, like a child afraid of the boogeyman. He pretended that he didn’t scream with his heart in his throat when he thought he saw the reflection of a red smile in the mirror that morning, only for it to be a red tube of ointment on his dresser.

_It’s not real_ , he told himself incessantly, as he stood in line for a taco, as he watched with hawk eyes at everyone in the fast food joint. He handed over the cash to the cashier with a frantic trepidation, scanning around the establishment for anything, but convinced there wasn’t. He squirmed at the lurid laughter of college students from a table over, tried hard not to think about their screeching like nails on a chalkboard, or like metal against bone. He didn’t manage to finish his taco.

The copse of trees which surrounded the institution no longer felt as just a nuisance, it was unwelcoming and screamed danger of the unknown. With its back against the dull morning light, the stone of the building was cool to the touch as he rested his forehead briefly on it, its white and pale green walls unassuming. He saw a glimmer out of the corner of his eye, and jumped up immediately, breath becoming shallow, head swivelling around; but no one was there. Nothing was there. Just a line of trees and foliage still tinted in verdigris.

It was like somnambulism, walking through the familiar halls. He nodded tiredly to everyone’s greetings, ignoring their questioning stares, making a beeline straight to his office (but not before he flicked the light on with shaking fingers, not before he checked under the desk and sofa for anything that didn’t belong. Raccoons, he told himself). He pretended that it was normal, that everything was in its proper place, and he didn’t think that some items on his desk had been moved, oh so slightly.

He pretended, and pretended and pretended, because _it’s not real_.

_It’s not real_.

* * *

“Ryan’s asking for a transfer,” Adam deadpanned to a hunched over Shane with his head in his hands. “He thinks he’s being chased again.”

“I know,” came the muffled reply.

TJ rubbed exhaustedly at his eyes, pinching his glasses in the other hand as Adam unceremoniously tossed the request form onto Shane’s desk. “Not going to do anything about it?”

“And what would you have me do?” Shane snapped, looking immediately guilty. “Sorry, that’s—”

“It’s okay,” Adam shrugged, taking a seat on a vacant chair, crossing his legs.

“This is what,” TJ said as he picked up the form, “ his fifth time?”

“Sixth,” Shane replied instantly. He stared up at the wet spots on the ceiling, feeling a wave of deja vu overwhelm him; he had spent his first few minutes in this office looking up at them feeling lost too. “Considering his history, we could probably send him to Gardenia,” he sighed. “They would accept him.”

“But he’s your patient,” TJ retorted, letting the form drift down onto the desk again. “You two have been doing so well—”

“In what? Long periods of silence? Avoidance? Not making any progress?” Shane leaned back forward to address TJ, his chair creaking in protest. “Face it Teej, this is going nowhere.”

Adam tapped his finger on the wooden armrest in thought. “Are you okay, Shane?”

“Are we all?”

“Come on, man. Don’t be a dick,” TJ admonished, elbowing him in the side. “You know we worry about you.”

Shane shook his head with an amicable smile, “Thank you but you don’t have to. I’m perfectly fine.”

“You aren’t yourself,” TJ’s hand was on his shoulder now, gripping hard. “You haven’t been since that night.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Shane laughed a little too forcefully, shrugging the hand off.

“Shane,” Adam sat with his open posture, and Shane couldn’t stop the slimy feeling creeping up his throat. “have you seen anything out of the ordinary these days?”

He stared into Adam’s doe eyes then barked a laugh of disbelief, startling his friends. “What are you thinking, Adam? That I’m hallucinating now?”

“I didn’t say that,” Adam returned easily, palms up. “You did.”

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. “Well I’m not, alright. This isn’t some folie à deux case. I’m not going crazy.”

“That’s what everyone says,” TJ said cautiously beside him, searching his face. “On average though, people don’t know that they are or refuse to acknowledge it until at least a few months in.”

“I’m not fucking crazy!” he snapped, smacking his hand on the desk and standing up suddenly, his chair wheeling to hit the wall behind him. He felt betrayed by the people whom he thought he could count on the most. “How could you even think that?” he asked looking at the both of them who sat coolly with new eyes.

“We have to entertain every possibility,” Adam recited off like a robot.

“You’ve been acting weird lately, Shane,” TJ soothed, and Shane absolutely hated how patronising it sounded. “We’re worried it may be something you haven’t come to terms with.”

“Fuck you,” Shane spat, suddenly feeling a lot more like a patient that he wanted to be. “There’s nothing wrong with me. And this,” he gestured to both of them ganging up on him, “is a new low for you guys.”

With that, he stormed out of his own office, relishing in the slam of the door behind him which cut off TJ and Adam’s voices. He bypassed the red glow of a smile in the hallway, spent the next hour in the canteen trying to rid himself of its afterimage.

* * *

“Hey Eugene, can I talk to you?”

Eugene lifted his head up where it had been pillowed on his arms and unfurled his locked knees. “What’s up?”

Ryan cast a pointed look at Zach, Keith and Ned who around them but were busy chatting about something that had to do with ancient life on Mars. Taking the hint but displeased with moving, Eugene pushed himself off the benches.

“Where are you going?” Zach asked quickly, a hand already winding itself in the hem of Eugene’s shirt.

“Ryan needs love advice,” Eugene drawled lazily, a smirk on his face, much to Ryan’s indignant splutter.

Heat pooling in his cheeks, Ryan said lowly while glaring at Eugene “I do not.”

Eugene shrugged easily, already walking away, leaving Ryan to follow.

“Good luck, Ryan!” Zach’s voice drifted over the court, following them, as he waved to their backs.

They came to a stop behind the small bricked hut which housed the generator, more of a run-down shack than anything, but it was also more private than the exposed parts of the court. Leaning against the dirty and faded brick with hands in his pockets, Eugene jutted his chin out at Ryan, gesturing for him to talk.

“Have you seen Shane lately?” Ryan began with a softball, just to prime him.

Eugene rolled his eyes. “You mean have I seen the sad tension between you and lover-boy for these past few weeks? Yeah I have,” he answered smugly, especially at Ryan’s red tinted cheeks. “You two need to pull your shit together, time’s a wastin’,” he mimed tapping on a watch.

“It’s not about that,” Ryan groaned into a hand, massaging his temples. He paused, knowing that it may be overstepping some unsaid boundaries when it came to mental illnesses and privacy, but he was worried about Shane. The doctor had looked drawn and pale, more than he usually was, and seemed to be tensed in anticipation for something all the time. He wanted to ask him what was wrong, to lend an ear or a shoulder, to maybe even kiss the knot of worry permanently etched between his brows away; but then he would remember why he was avoiding him in the first place, and all those warm feelings would sour like spoilt milk. Still. “Did you see a…” he trailed off, twirling a finger in a circle around his head.

Eugene lifted a brow, unimpressed. “A dark cloud of presumed death hanging over his head?”

“Yeah, that,” Ryan answered timidly, looking down at the dirt and scuffing the toe of his shoe on it.

“Yes,” he sighed, “and it’s not pretty.”

Ryan plastered a grin on his face, keeping his tone light enough to be joking, “Very dark and looming?”

“Ryan,” Eugene said, and waited until the other looked straight at him again. “We’re all sick, in one way or another.” He softened his tone uncharacteristically at the stricken look on Ryan’s face. “Just because we see something, doesn’t mean that it’s real, alright?”

“I know,” Ryan conceded, rubbing a hand against his stubble; the tiny scratches grounded him where he was.

“But you still think it’s gotta mean something because you’re worried about him, right?” Eugene guessed without needing an answer. He tilted his head back, hitting it against the brick wall lightly.

A large bird circled the sky overhead them, the faraway sound of a basketball bouncing on the court, the distant voices. He felt dislodged in time. “The other guy died.”

“Yeah, but not everyone does. I’m not a psychic, unlike my mom.”

“Your mom is a psychic?” Ryan asked in disbelief. Eugene had always been the most mysterious person he had ever met, but he didn’t expect that.

“Was,” he answered, pushing himself off the wall. “She died a while ago.”

Ryan swallowed at the sudden appearance of sand in his throat, grating. “I’m sorry,” he said as sincerely as possible. He didn’t want to think about his own parent’s death; he knew how hard it was to lose someone you cared about, and he didn’t wish that upon anyone. He didn’t want to lose anyone else.

“It’s okay,” Eugene patted him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “She’s probably loving it, hanging out with spirits and all.” Ryan chuckled a little, and Eugene even cracked a non-cynical smile. “Seriously though,” he continued, “I don’t think anything bad is going to happen to him, so don’t worry about it. This thing I see,” he tapped Ryan on the centre of his forehead once, “is not an exact science.”

“Well I’ll say,” Ryan snorted, a weight already lifting slightly off his chest. He felt as if he could breathe properly for the first time in weeks; not the shallowed greedy breaths he took whenever he woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air, arms flailing, glad for the warmth of Shane’s arms around him despite the other’s panicked eyes. “Thanks, Eugene.”

“No problemo, amigo,” Eugene drawled, giving his shoulder one last pat.

“Should we head back to your posse?” Ryan teased, trying to feel more like himself and less like the mush he was whenever it came to Shane.

Before Eugene could answer though, they heard a sharp “Wait!” from the other side of the hut, and who should stumble into view but Zach, his face flushed and brows knitted. He seemed reluctant to join them until Eugene waved him over, to whom he scurried towards and tucked himself in under Eugene’s arm. Ryan thought they looked like a mother hen and her chick, but wisely kept that comment to himself. Instead, he asked Zach what was wrong.

“Y-you won’t laugh at me, right Ryan?” Zach checked, his fingers twisting themselves into knots. Eugene was running a hand up and down his arm to soothe.

“Scout’s honour,” Ryan held up his fingers, and felt a powerful sense of deja vu. The image of Shane doing the same thing flashed across his mind like a whizz of lightning, that first official private counselling session which seemed so long ago. He ignored the strangling tightening in his chest and the ridiculous image of a lanky Shane and his warm brown eyes.

Eugene urged him on, “Go ahead, Zach. If he laughs, I’ll just punch him in the face.”

Zach gave him a deliberate once-over. “You’re too skinny,” he deadpanned, laughing when Eugene shoved him away, only to wrap his arm around him again. “But uh, Ryan, I saw a message in my soup today. And I think it may be for you?”

A thin coil of dread started to whirl in his stomach. “What message?”

“I didn’t t-think it was important, until I, uh, overheard your conversation,” Zach cleared his throat. “Sorry about that by the way.”

Eugene sighed dramatically, “I’d like to say that it’s fine, but you keep doing this.”

“Because I’m worried!” Zach exclaimed righteously.

“Of what?” Eugene scoffed. “That I’m going to be seduced by whoever I’m talking to?”

Zach wrinkled his nose in distaste. “No offence Ryan, I know you’re objectively sexy, but I doubt anyone can steal Eugene away from me.”

_Oh, when it comes to Eugene he’s confident._ Ryan mentally face-palmed. “None taken. But the message?”

“Oh right,” Zach at least looked sheepish at the detour, but Eugene was smirking his way into the next week, smug as hell. “The message was: _They touched you with the hand of God, and so was he. You will burn in hell for your sins against humanity._ ”

“What the fuck?” Ryan couldn’t help but exclaim, and Eugene was properly creeped out too, going by the look on his face. Ryan shook his head repeatedly, running a hand in his hair. “That’s fucking dark as hell.”

“Why do you think it’s for Ryan?” Eugene asked, clutching Zach closer to him.

Zach seemed uneasy as he clutched onto the hem of Eugene’s shirt. “I didn’t know at first, but then something kinda clicked,” here he snapped his fingers which echoed in the air around them, “it’s like a switch.”

Ryan knew better than to be doubtful of everything, but Zach was really giving him a run for his money. “Hand of God?”

“You touched anything resembling a large, disembodied hand recently?” Eugene playfully asked, earning him an elbow in the ribs from Zach, who shrieked “It’s not funny!”

“That being said, the message is very vague,” Ryan rubbed at his chin. “I don’t reckon an interpretation comes with it?”

“No,” Zach answered while knitting his brows at Ryan, as if he were the crazy one. “God doesn’t interpret the messages for us, we do that ourselves.”

“But how do we know what it means?” Ryan pressed.

With a solemn matter of factness which Ryan usually thought was reserved for priests, Zach serenely answered, “You just do.”

Before he could question on _how_ one does, a bone-chilling scream rang out onto the grounds; it came from inside the building.

* * *

_Please, please, please_ , Ryan begged to whatever entity was listening as he rushed through the halls with Eugene and Zach in tow. Nursed jostled past them as they all ran to the source of the scream, somewhere near the stairs. _Please, don’t let him be hurt_.

As he rounded the corner to the stairs, he saw TJ crouching over someone and Patrick wailing like someone had died in the corner, he had to force himself not to draw hasty conclusions. There were plenty of people in the building, it didn’t necessarily have to be Shane. He inched forward, then broke into a jog again towards them. When Patrick saw him, he wailed louder, which attracted TJ’s attention. “No! No! Stop, Ryan! Stop!” he shouted, but it was too late.

There was blood. A lot of it.

The thick red of it glittered underneath the sunlight from the windows, it pooled into the lines between the tiles and dripped off the steps of the stairs, staining them a bright red. Shane was there, his face pale and drained. Ryan felt the burn of the bile surge up in his throat, and without further warning, he hurled whatever he had had for breakfast onto the floor, scaring Patrick even more. The yellowish vomit splashed against the red of viscous blood, producing a mixture of virulent poison. Ryan blinked hard to clear the images from his head, the overwhelming amount of blood, the smell of smoke, the gunshots, the wounds, the lifeless bodies of his parents; and now _Shane_. He hurled a second time, mostly water.

Ryan didn’t know he was hyperventilating until he felt hands on his back, voices telling him to breathe. He recognised the pale green scrubs of the nurses and Adam’s own concerned face next to his, gently soothing him. “Take care of him,” Adam said to Mark, then he left to try to calm Patrick down. Ryan’s throat felt abused by the acidic burn, but it wasn’t as painful as the panic suffocating him. “What happened?” he rasped, clutching desperately at Mark’s shirt. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the blood, to look at Shane, who wasn’t warm anymore. “Is he dead? Oh God, he’s dead isn’t he?” he choked, and felt a fresh wave of vomit coming up. He regurgitated once more, yellowish bile splattering onto the tiles.

Two cold hands came to rest on his shoulders, and he felt the presence of a body behind him through his retching, a familiar voice. “No one’s dead, Ryan. Everything’s okay,” Shane shushed, close enough that his breath tickled his ear. Ryan made to turn around, but was stopped by Shane’s firm hold on his shoulders. “You don’t want to look at that, trust me.”

“Shane?” his voice came out wobbly. He wiped uselessly at the remains of vomit of his mouth, cringing at the stench, and cleared his throat lightly. “You okay?”

A huff of air across his ear. “Yeah, I’m okay,” Shane replied softly, even though his hands were ice-cold. “Mark’s gonna take you to the bathroom alright? You can clean up and after,” he rubbed his hands across his shoulders, “you can rest okay?”

But he didn’t want to leave, he wanted to know what happened. Why were Shane’s hands so cold? Why did he bleed? Was this his fault?

As if he could read his mind, Shane pressed closer to him, almost chest to back, “It wasn’t anyone else’s fault but mine. I was a little clumsy.” Ryan’s clean hand came up to cup over of Shane’s, stunned by the cold. Shane hooked his finger back, and Ryan thought he felt the brief, phantom press of cold lips at the back of his ear. “You go now,” Shane urged, and that was the last thing Ryan heard before he was led away.

* * *

The stark white of the bandages were a small comfort, especially compared the large red gash they hid underneath. Shane flexed his fingers as the nurse snipped off the excess and pinned the bandages together. He shot her a grateful smile, and she exited the infirmary as TJ and Adam strolled in.

“How’s the arm?” TJ nodded to the fresh bandages with his hands stuffed into his pockets, a strain apparent in his voice.

Shane gave his arm a spin, grinning lightly. “As good and new. How’re the patients?”

“Calmed and tucked into bed,” TJ sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Better than you.”

Adam nodded. “You fell down on your own?”

“Yes, I did,” Shane frowned. “I already told you that.”

“Just checking,” Adam said serenely, staring out the window, then back again. “You’re not usually such a klutz.”

Shane snorted, “First time for everything.”

“Don’t you dare do that again,” TJ growled, and for the first time since his fall, Shane could see how rattled his friend truly was.

“I tripped and fell, that’s all,” he reiterated, arms spread wide. He let them fall onto the bed with a soft thump. “There was a apparently very sharp metal ladder leaning on the rails, and it cut my arm open,” he brandished his newly wrapped arm like a weapon. “It was bad timing that Patrick was there and had to see it.”

“If he hadn’t screamed so loud, I don’t think anyone would have found you until you bled out to death!” TJ exclaimed, collapsing next to Shane and smacking him on the shoulder, ignoring the other’s grimace. “You’re the type who keeps everything to himself, even when he’s fucking bleeding out on the floor.”

“It wasn’t that serious,” Shane reassured. “And I could’ve walked on my own to the infirmary.”

“Like hell you could’ve, your hands were fucking freezing and you could barely push yourself upright.”

“He has very good points,” Adam agreed.

Shane rolled his eyes, willing himself not to relive the fear in his veins. He was truly scared when he traced the path of the blood back to his arm, when his adrenaline was still pumping hard and his brain sent pulses of analgesics to his gaping wound. The thick jagged line ran up the whole of the inside of his forearm, and it must’ve punctured the main artery near his wrist. “Well, I’m alright now aren’t I?”

“And thank god for that,” TJ sighed, wrapping an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “You’ve used up my scare quota, I hope you know that.” Shane chuckled at that, patting TJ’s arm in return.

“You sure you’re okay?” Adam asked again, his face a perfect visage of concern. “No one pushed you or anything?”

But someone did. Or he thought that someone did. What else could it have been when he felt the distinct press of two palms on his shoulder blades while he was distracted by a news article on his phone, when he wasn’t looking where he was going. He had felt it, _No, you didn’t, it’s not real, it doesn’t make sense, there was no one there_. Had he tripped over his own feet then? He was exhausted these days, more so than usual, with the nightmares keeping him up and the anxiety he harboured. _But you felt it, someone pushed you, someone was hoping for your head to cave in_.

_It wasn’t real_.

“No,” Shane lied through a tight smile.“I’m sure.”

* * *

The wound ceased to bleed through the white of the bandages, but it still throbbed incessantly. Hecounted himself mildly lucky that it ruined his left arm, lest he couldn’t use his dominant hand without feeling a stab of pain every time. Muttering a “thank you” to Flores as he carefully plucked the coffee from his hands, he slumped into a corner seat far away from the patients who were munching down on their breakfast. He himself couldn’t care for breakfast.

The nagging felling of someone watching his every move had only increased exponentially after hid fall; now he felt like he was under constant surveillance no matter where he was, especially when he was at home alone. He had taken to sleeping in fits and starts, waking up about every half an hour, eyes wildly scanning the dark for any red smiles or shadowy figures, half convincing himself that if he only slept in intervals, nothing could come for him, like how the axeman only targeted victims who were asleep. _Ryan would’ve laughed at the one_.

Speaking of, he surreptitiously sipped on his coffee and cast his eyes about the room, instantly spotting Ryan who sat with the others, his face bathed in the pale morning sunlight. He was beautiful, Shane could admit that much, and felt a stab of guilt at how he had seen the blood, _his_ blood, spilled all over the tiles. He wished that he hadn’t seen that, knew his trauma of his parents’ death. The poor man was shaking like a leaf amid a puddle of his own vomit, and Shane wanted to off himself for causing it.

He flexed his hand on purpose, relishing in the pain which functioned as a momentary penance.

* * *

Shane looked horrible, even though he had healed from the worst of it. Ryan glanced at him as sneakily as he could from his plate of bacon and eggs, tuning out of the conversation beside him as his eyes caught on the white roll of bandage which blended in with the other’s arm.

He wanted to ask him if he was okay, if he needed help. He wanted to ask him again about something else too. _Did you fall? Or were you pushed?_ Ryan had never known Shane to be extremely clumsy, despite his lanky frame. Instead, because of it, he would argue that Shane had always been careful, so him tripping down a set of stairs so violently was impossible. Other than that, he also heard Patrick’s rants, usually during the night since their rooms were close to each other. Before he fell asleep, there was always a whimper of fright, and the low chant of “ _red smile, crossed eyes, red smile, crossed eyes_ ”, but he couldn’t tell that to the disbelieving Shane, and Patrick never seemed to offer anything during the day.

A roiling in his chest started up again whenever he remembered the vivd blood and how close he came to losing Shane; about Shane’s ice cold hands and pale face, and _the whisper of a kiss on the tip of his ear_. He stuffed down the eggs, ignoring the tell-tale blush which had creeped up his neck and cheeks, lighting his ears on fire.

He knew the men in masks were real, and he knew that they were after him. Now, Shane too, and it was his fault for getting too close, too attached; so he had to fix it somehow. Either he goes away and lives with the little box of memories labelled ‘Shane’ somewhere else, thus guaranteeing his safety; or he does that and they kill him anyway, cause they’re a bunch of bastards. Ryan understood what they were capable of. He couldn’t protect Shane if he wasn’t with him, but he couldn’t really protect either of them in this state either.

He needed to talk to someone, he needed an out. Maybe if he could escape, buy some weapons and camp around the area, shooting whatever menace got too close; yes that could work, but they’d find him in no time. He couldn’t run, Shane may still be in danger, and whoever was associated with him too. He swivelled his head around, looking at the other patients whom he could actually call his friends; he had spent his time longer here than any other mental healthcare facility, bonds were formed. He couldn’t let them die either. No one should suffer for his sins.

_There’s something you can do, you know what it is,_ snickered the voice in his head, and it was right. He smiled grimly down onto his empty plate.

“Hey Ryan buddy, you okay?” Steven asked, worry painted on his face.

Ryan gave him a thumbs up in return. “Just fine.”

* * *

He thought he smelt the wafting of pine from his barred window, but that was certainly his mind acting up. Testing the braided cloth, he was pleased with himself; he had made it tightly wound and sturdy. He cast another look at the note on the table, unfolded it and held it up against the moonlight, pondering. In the end, he decided to add that last line. He dotted the period with a finality.

Bracing himself against the narrow ledge of the window, he stretched up to tie the cloth as best as he could onto the blade of the fan, missing it more times than he would’ve liked as it spun away from him. With a grunt of frustration, he leaped forwards a little, feet hitting the table with a clatter, but managed to hook the cloth onto one of the blades. He stood stock still, listening for footsteps rushing down the hallway or the alerted voices of one of his neighbours. Dead silence.

Sure that the coast was temporarily clear, he hurriedly stood on the edge of the table, hands winding themselves around the cloth. He pulled on it twice to make doubly sure it would hold his weight, then looped the noose around his neck, tightening it. His room was dark and silent, he never noticed how different it looked compared to the version of the one in the day. He missed the feeling of warm arms wrapped around him too, even if it was just for comfort.

_Do you think you’re safe here?”_

_“From them? Well, they haven’t come around to pay me a visit so far, have they?”_

_“What would you do if they did?”_

_“… I’d escape, like always. Transfer to another place if I can’t be let out.”_

He missed him, his stupid laugh and the stupid crinkle in his eyes when he did. He missed his ridiculous jokes and his appalling dance moves, to music so old or so obscure. He missed the secret smiles they’d share, the inside jokes, the gentle nudging and the playful teasing. He wasn’t even gone, and he missed him already.

_“Don’t you like it here?”_

_“Of course I do. But what else can I do?”_

There was only one viable solution to this chain. He wouldn’t allow another person to get hurt because of him, because of his last name, someone who he never wished to be.

_“You could stay.”_

_I want to, but I can’t_. He tasted the brine of tears. _Goodbye, Shane_. He tipped himself forwards.

* * *

Of all the nights that Shane could’ve been at the institution, it had to fall on one when he was back at home, shivering in bed, miles away. He wanted to ignore the blue glow of his phone screen lighting up, buzzing on the dresser beside him, but when he saw that it was TJ’s name flashing, he picked it up after a couple of rings.

“Hello?” he said, faking the grogginess in his voice. He didn’t need the other questioning him on his sleeping habits, or lack of it. There was a silence on the other end of the line, a muffled sound. “Teej?”

“Shane,” TJ began in his most placating voice, and Shane instantly shot up, feeling the blood shoot up int his head. Something was wrong.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat, his senses running on all cylinders. “Is it Ryan?” his voice cracked.

TJ made a noise at the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a nasally hum. “We found him trying to kill himself. Hung himself from the fan.”

“Give me thirty minutes,” Shane jabbed at the end call button, hastily throwing on some clothes and grabbing his bag. For once, he didn’t clock the red smile following him all the way to the parking lot, his heart and head too occupied with someone else.

_Ryan_ , he pleaded as he sped down the roads, making sharp corners and cursing at every red light. _Please, if there’s a God, please_. He honked at the line of traffic, coming to a stop behind a car and letting out a string of expletives. He was breathing hard, and he rested his head on his steering wheel, one hand still blaring the horn. _Please let him be safe_.

* * *

Shane’s gut churned as he saw Ryan on the bed, the other looking much too small and unprotected amidst the white sheets. Instinctively, he reached out a hand to curl his fingers against Ryan’s cold ones, pointedly not looking at the line of red decorating his throat like a claim. “Ryan?” he tried calling softly, but the other didn’t stir. The beep of the machines around him sounded sterile.

A hand came to rest upon his shoulder, TJ. Through the tears in his eyes, he spun around to wrap the other in a hug, which TJ reciprocated, patting him on the back without saying anything. “Where’s Adam?” Shane asked as they pulled away, hand going back to Ryan’s again.

“Dealing with the top brass,” TJ answered tiredly, rubbing his neck. “It’s been a hell of a few weeks.”

Shane chuckled hollowly, “It sure has.” The bandage around his arms shone in the half-dark. “Sorry I didn’t make it any better.”

“It was an accident, don’t worry about it,” TJ waved away, then pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. “You might want to read this though,” he said with a pointed look towards Ryan.

Shane unfolded it with trembling fingers.

_I’m sorry, but this was the only way._

_I know you may think that this is stupid. I know that you don’t believe in them like I do._

_But that’s okay, no one else does either._

_They’re real to me, and I know what they’re capable of. If they can’t kill me, they’ll kill all of you instead, just to watch me suffer. They’re sadists that way._

_And what do you know, I can’t let them kill all of you. I love you all, more than I love myself._

_I didn’t ask to be born with this name, I didn’t ask to be subjected to this fate, but neither did my parents. Neither did anyone else._

_We were just unlucky, I guess. Too rich for our own good, too many secrets kept sealed up for generations… not like I’d know of them, but I don’t think they care._

_They just want to wipe us out._

_I’m not worried for Jake, he has all the bodyguards money can buy. Also, he agreed to this life, so. Not much I can say there. I am sorry though, Jake. I know you did what you thought was best by putting me in medical care, you didn’t know it would all spiral so badly. Hope you take care of yourself, and the wife, and the kids. Tell them their Uncle Ryan loves them, so much._

_Well, I’m running out of space. I think I’ll end it here. See you guys on the other side._

_P.S. That dinner with everyone was amazing. I’ll hold on to that memory forever._

_Love, Ryan Bergara._

There were so many emotions in Shane, he didn’t think he could process them. First the blinding rage at how Ryan could be so stupid as to believe that killing himself would fix anything, and his stupid hallucinations of the masked men. Then the waves of guilt, of not noticing it sooner, of not having done something to prevent this. Nestled in there was a small pit of gratitude at the way Ryan’s chest still heaved up and down to draw breath. “What an idiot,” he muttered under his breath, his voice watery and strained.

“He’s unstable,” TJ pressed, working his jaw. “I think it’s better if he was transferred to another facility.”

The note crumpled in his fingers. “What?” Shane shook his head. “Why?”

“He obviously has too strong an attachment to this place, to us,” TJ said pointedly, and the _to you_ was unsaid but heard. “We can’t risk him killing himself over us, and face it Shane,” he added before the other had a chance to retort, “he’s not getting any better under our care.”

Shane unwound his fingers from the note, smoothing it out, keeping his eyes averted from TJ’s. “And you think the best way is to send him to a place with strangers in it? Start all over?”

TJ sighed and softened his tone. “Look, Shane. I know you care about him a lot.” He put a hand on Shane’s shoulder, gripping tightly. _His signature move_ , Shane mocked in his head. “But it’s for the best.”

“For who’s best?” he asked as he nodded.

“For his,” TJ stressed, tightening his grip, looking straight into Shane’s eyes, then pulling away. “For ours too.”

He felt numb from the influx of feelings, his hands not moving the way he wanted them too. “Did Adam agree?”

“I haven’t asked him yet.”

“Well,” he arched his brows to lighten the mood, “thanks for telling me first.”

Hesitant and unsure, TJ gave him a final pat on the arm and a nod before exiting. Shane’s fingers sound Ryan’s again, he knelt down onto the floor, cold seeping into his knees and pressed his forehead against them, eyes screwed shut. Lifting the other’s fingers to his lips, he kissed them softly, willing him to wake up.

* * *

No matter how much he wanted to spend every minute of the day at Ryan’s bedside, he did have other patients to tend to. He took care of Brent and Patrick, and everyone else during the counselling sessions, running through the prepared scripts in his head like a well-oiled machine. He was sure that everyone took notice of his excessively dour mood, but didn’t want to explain himself; after all, everyone was shaken up by Ryan’s suicide attempt. It made them all out of sorts, like the dark clouds Eugene saw loomed all over them now.

Ryan had woken up a handful of times now, but always briefly, and never when Shane was there with him. It made him frustrated and worried beyond belief, though he was also happy that Ryan did wake up, and wasn’t lost beyond the grave, like one of the ghosts he believes in so much.

Ghosts. Shane saw them, those ghosts with red smiles and crossed eyes, standing in street corners like some sentinel of death. They were becoming clearer day by day, and Shane always drove past them with his foot pressed down on the accelerator. _It’s not real_. If he doesn’t acknowledge their existence, they’re not real.

He had to hold on to what he knew was the truth; one of them being his friend who had almost committed suicide over these hallucinations.

* * *

“Hey Shane,” Steven waved, hovering around him. He gestured to the empty seat next to him. “May I?”

“Of course,” Shane smiled as he answered, scooting over to make space. Steven returned a bright smile of his own, settling onto the metal bench. They stared out in front of them for a while, before Shane asked, “Not with Andrew?”

Steven laughed, his voice bright like Ryan’s, but different. His was higher, lighter, like the tinkling of chimes on the slightest breeze of wind; whereas Ryan’s was deeper, less controlled, like a dam gushing with sincerity. He missed that laugh.

“He’s over there,” Steven pointed to the other side of the court, where Andrew was bickering with Eugene about something, and Keith was playing referee. “We’re not joined at the hip, contrary to popular belief,” he teased with an arched brow in Shane’s direction.

“Shocking,” Shane drawled, then turning to grin at Steven. “I never knew!”

“Well, you’ve been enlightened,” Steven sniffed mocked haughtily, “you’re welcome.”

“I see why you’re Ryan’s friend,” Shane chuckled, rubbing his hands a little to warm them up from the cold.

Steven grinned back, “And I see why he likes you.” He wrung his fingers together, that old action of his. “How’s Ryan?”

Shane bounced his head up and down, as if to assure himself. “Heard he’s woken up a few times now, so I’m pretty sure he’s okay,” he reassured.

“Haven’t you gone to see him?”

“He hasn’t woken up when I was there.”

“Oh,” Steven said, his brows knitted together sadly. “I’m sure he’d love to see you when he does wake up though. ”

Shane arched a brow of his own in Steven’s direction. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the other replied breezily, smile never wavering. “He loves you, after all.”

Shane’s breath hitched, his heart skipped a beat. Heat was slowly crawling up his neck, he could feel it just under his shirt. “He loves all of us,” he managed to wrangle from his twisted tongue, some part of him wanting something from Steven, wanted him to say that it wasn’t true.

“He does doesn’t he?” Steven unclasped his hands, stuffing them into his pockets instead. He looked out to the court again where Andrew was standing, then back to Shane. “But I do think you’re special to him.”

A boa constrictor had wound itself around his heart, squeezing it in a vice. “And you know this because?” he trailed off, not completely trusting his voice.

Steven rolled his eyes at him and deadpanned, “You’re both idiots,” which to Shane, was a very un-Steven like thing to do. “I know people make fun of Andrew and I for our so called heart-eyes,” here he extracted his hands from his pockets just to make air quotations, then quickly stuffed them in again, “but you should see the looks you and Ryan send each other. It’s disgustingly lovesick.”

“Disgustingly?”

“Of course that’s the part you choose to focus on,” Steven groaned, doubling over. Pulling himself up, he pointed at Shane with his hand still in his pocket, lifting his jacket. “You need to get your game together, man.”

Shane’s jaw worked, and he rubbed his own hands together again for lack of something to do. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, small voice almost lost to the wind.

Steven’s face turned sympathetic in a heartbeat. He looked back out towards Andrew, chewing his bottom lip in thought. “I didn’t know if I could either.” He scuffed at the dirt around the bench, not meeting Shane’s averted gaze. “I know why he’s in here, with me,” he admitted, and Shane’s head snapped up so fast he thought he might’ve had whiplash. “I didn’t want him to. He doesn’t deserve to be in here.” At this he smiled brightly at Shane again, albeit there was a watery glaze to his eyes. “I know I’m crazy,” he laughed, as if he was telling the other about his MBTI. “And I know I’m not easy to be with, but,” he caught Andrew’s gaze from across the court. Andrew smiled at him warmly and waved; he returned the gesture. “I love him so much, and I’m thankful I get to spend everyday with him.”

Shane turned the words over in his head silently. “I love Ryan.” The declaration wasn’t surprising, just a soft landing of warmth in his chest, a quiet admittance to what he had known for a long time now, what he had been avoiding. “I love him,” he repeated, knowing that saying aloud makes it more true.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Steven mock chastised, bumping his shoulder against Shane’s. “Go get him.”

* * *

_Easier said than done_ , the tiny voice in his head laughed, as Shane sat on the uncomfortably small plastic chair next to Ryan’s bed. He was bone-tired from running up and down all day every day, functioning on coffee and pure will rather than proper meals and sleep. He rubbed at his eyes lethargically, using his fingers to pry them apart and to keep his eyes peeled at Ryan’s sleeping form. The other was curled on his side, hands in front of him, and Shane couldn’t help but compare the pose to a cat’s. It was strikingly similar, he held back the urge to poke Ryan’s nose.

The analog clock which hung above the large cabinets of supplies read 2:35 a.m. Shane could feel himself drooping off to sleep, but he propped his heavy head up with an arm, desperate to catch even a glance of Ryan awake; he remembered Ryan’s rants about ghost hunting and how it was like catching lightning in a bottle. He understood the irony of the parallel situations.

The sheets moved, and Ryan stirred. Shane’s heart leapt into his throat, a concoction of joy and nervousness as he watched the other’s eyes blink blearily open, turning to lay on his back. “Shane?” he rasped, fingers unconsciously moving forwards.

Shane’s own met his in the middle, a grin splitting open on his face. “Hey,” he cooed. “How’re you doing, Bergmeister?” Ryan's hand was warm. _This is real._

Ryan furrowed his brows and smacked his lips. He reached for the water on the dresser, but Shane beat him to it. The doctor lifted him up gently and propped the patient upright against the pillows, holding the cup and straw steady for Ryan. “I’m not an invalid,” Ryan mumbled around the straw as he took gulps from it.

“No, you’re not,” Shane set the cup back in its place, sliding his fingers against Ryan’s. “But you’re an idiot.”

“I did what I had to,” Ryan argued. He didn’t try to take his life just for the kicks. He had a purpose, and it was too bad that he didn’t achieve it. “I don’t want to hurt all of you,” he grated out, casting his gaze onto the white of the sheets. “Especially not you.”

“Oh Ryan,” Shane soothed as the first of his tears began to fall. He enveloped the other in a tight hug, a hand stroking his back and the other cupping the back of his head. Ryan heaved great sobs, and he felt his shoulder become wet with brine. “It’s okay, Ryan,” he whispered into the other’s dark hair, pressing his cheek close. “No one’s getting hurt.”

“You don't know that,” Ryan hiccuped, his hands coming to grab at the back of Shane’s shirt tightly.

“You’re right, I don’t.” Shane rocked them slightly from side to side. “But we’re all human. We hurt each other all the time. Doesn’t mean we can’t always reconcile and make up.”

Ryan huffed a laugh into his shoulder, and how he missed that laugh. “You know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I know,” Shane smiled into his hair lightly, and carded his fingers through it. “You really need to shampoo this, by the way.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Ryan laughed, coughing when it got too much for his bruised throat. Shane immediately grabbed for the cup and pulled back from Ryan, urging him to drink. Ryan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Only you would say that,” he complained with a twinkle in his eye.

Shane grinned back, unable to stop the fizzy bubbles of joy travelling in his veins. He replaced the cup and wiped tenderly at the tear streaks on Ryan’s cheeks with his thumb, catching on his beard. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he whispered.

Putting his hand on the other’s, Ryan pressed it closer to his cheek, even though there was no where else to go. “Don’t be, it was my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” Shane stressed, winding his free hand with Ryan’s own, beseeching. “It’s all just been very, very weird.”

“Understatement of the year,” Ryan snorted, releasing Shane’s hand on his cheek, but not letting go of it. They ended up with their hands cupped around one another’s in between them. He was glad that he had the chance to see Shane again, hold his slightly dry hands in his, warm and real.

“I love you,” Shane blurted, hands tightening on Ryan’s, watching his eyes grow wide. “I want to be with you.”

Ryan couldn’t feel anything except the pounding of his heart in his ears. He wanted to say something, anything back. _How could you love me? I’m not exactly normal. You should love someone else. A nice girl who loves you back, who’ll care for you. Live a normal life. Enjoy it._ But Ryan would admit that he was a selfish man. He couldn’t give this up, not after the last two major scares he had, not with the knowledge that there were people after them now. _Them_ , because they were a package deal. He gripped back tightly, and lifted one of Shane’s hands to his lips, pecking it. “I love you too.”

“Really?” Shane gaped in disbelief.

“Really,” Ryan answered with a wide smile, his heart soaring. “Enough to not try to kill myself over.”

Shane groaned, and said “Promise me you won’t do that again,” in a rush of words, surging forward to wrap his arms around Ryan again, much to the other’s delight. He pressed a kiss into the mop of sandy hair, own arms enclosing the other. “I promise,” he said, and he meant it. “Whatever comes next, we’ll just have to fight it. Together.”

“Sounds good to me,” Shane replied, pulling back slightly. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Do you have to ask?” Ryan deadpanned, although his ever-widening grin showed that he wasn’t anything but fond.

Shane shrugged, pressing closer, avoiding a direct clash with Ryan’s nose. “I’m a gentleman,” he slurred, before sealing the deal.

* * *

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Shane looked around the supply closet, grimacing at the sense of deja vu. He had been experiencing those a lot as of late. “You getting tips from your patient?” he inquired jokingly, to Adam’s unamused stare. He held up his hands as a way of apologising.

Adam sighed. “You love Ryan, right?”

Even if Shane didn’t answer verbally, he was sure that the instantaneous blushing would’ve given him away. His face felt hotter than the sun. “Why?” he asked cautiously.

“You don’t have to deny it. Everyone knows,” Adam reassured in the most Adam way imaginable, dry and matter of fact, unsurprised. Neutral.

“If this is about how we give each other heart eyes,” he trailed off with intent, taking the term from a page of Steven’s book.

“Oh, so you know,” Adam said coolly, pushing his glasses up with a finger. Shane internally cursed at his effortless nonchalance. “That makes things easier then.”

“What things?”

Without missing a beat, without a shred of hesitance, Adam stared straight at him with expressionless doe eyes, “You can run away with him.”

Shane couldn’t stop the high screech of disbelief even if he tried, his mind going a mile a minute. “What the hell are you talking about Adam?”

“You obviously love each other very much, so why not run away with him?”

Shane pressed his fingers to his temples, gaping. “There are so many things and rules, I really don’t know where to start—”

“Then let me,” Adam cut in smoothly, much to Shane’s annoyance, but he gestured for Adam to continue anyway. Like a professor at the podium, he cleared his throat lightly. “This isn’t a place conducive for recovery, you and I know that much. And for people like Ryan, there’s not much for us to do; the things he believes in are set in stone, and are hard to change.” He held up a hand to stop Shane from interrupting. “Who’s to say what he believes in isn’t right though? The possibility exists. Even Keith’s aliens. Even Ned’s wife. Zach’s heavenly messages. Maybe they all exist, and we’re the ones who are blind.”

“Never took you for a believer,” Shane retorted, but Adam didn’t bite the bait.

“You know what I mean,” he sighed. “Our whole system is based on subjective criteria, it values the view of the majority over the minority. What is insanity? What is reality? Just because someone is distressed, doesn’t mean they’re wrong. Everyone believes in different things, say we live in a world of atheists; if I raised my hand and proudly declared I believe in a higher being who created the universe called God, I’d be the first one sent for a mental examination.”

“Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t real,” Shane echoed Ryan’s statement from so long ago, which Adam nodded sagely at. “I get that, but I don’t need a university lecture on it. What’s your point?”

“My point is, why bother which reality is the true reality? Who’s to say there aren’t multiple realities? And why should we decide who is locked up and who isn’t?” He directed a pointe look to Shane from the top of his glasses. “This isn’t a place for people, Shane. This is a prison. There’s nothing left to do here but rot.”

“But Eugene recovered,” Shane argued, feeling himself grasping at straws to tamp down the tentative bloom of possibility in his chest. “There aren’t many people who do, but it is possible.”

“You said it yourself, there aren’t many people who do. I don’t want to see my friends trapped in here.” At this, Adam took his glasses off and wiped them with the edge of his shirt. He looked younger than Shane had ever thought he was. “I’ve known Steven and Andrew for a long, long time,” he sighed, sounding more world weary than anyone else. “They’re my very best friends, and they did some stupid things, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to be in here.” He replaced his glasses carefully, “Same goes to you and Ryan, you don’t deserve to be stifled to death in this manmade prison.”

Shane kept his mouth shut, observing Adam. “I’ve talked to the other two, and we’ve been planning to get them out of here for a while now,” he admitted to a stoic Shane. “If you want to, you can come along.”

“And then?”

Adam held out his palms upwards, “You do whatever you want. You go wherever you want. You become whoever you want to be.”

Shane bit at the inside of his cheek, fingers scratching against his thigh. “What about you?”

“I’ll be here,” Adam said resignedly, gesturing with a hand around the room and smiling with self-depreciation. “I’ve got patients who need me, and probably your patients to deal with too. I can’t leave them.”

This was a leap of faith he could take or leave be. Let Steven and Andrew and Adam do whatever they want. He could erase this conversation from his mind, could repress it deep down inside him; it wouldn’t be the first time he kept someone else’s secrets. But he wanted it too. He wanted to bring Ryan outside, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him anywhere else but here, where ghosts haunted doggedly at their every move. “What did you have in mind?”

Adam grinned.

* * *

The hard part wasn’t planning, wasn’t fishing out the finer details from Adam, who was more than happy to answer Shane’s every question on their “prison-break”. The hard part, was convincing Ryan that this was a good idea. He spun around in his chair idly, waiting for Ryan, mind pulling in a hundred different directions. Three sharp knocks to the door, Shane chanced a glance at his loud clock, punctual as usual. “Come in!”

Ryan smiled at him as soon as he caught his eye, crossing the room in brisk steps and leaning down to press a chaste kiss on Shane’s lips. “Hey there,” he purred, and Shane couldn’t help but laugh at the reality of the situation. He never would have thought that he could have Ryan as he did now. “Hey yourself,” Shane drawled in a Southern accent, pulling his chin down to kiss him again, and Ryan giggled. He could really get used to the sound.

“So, what’s the flavourful topic of the day?” Ryan asked as he dropped into the vacant seat, the desk an isthmus between them. “Are we arguing about ghosts or aliens or the masked men?”

“None of the above,” Shane declared spreading his hands outwards. “Instead, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

Ryan raised an amused eyebrow, and placed both arms at the back of his head, fluttering his lashes. “Well, propose away.”

“Not like that,” Shane wheezed, leaning forward to cup the other’s cheek and press kisses to his nose and lips with loud smacks.

Ryan grumbled mockingly, “Then what is it?” He noticed that Shane’s fingers spasmed, and upped his guard immediately. “Shane,” he grabbed his hand, “remember we promised to share our troubles now?”

“Yeah, of course I do,” Shane said hastily, smile not quite reaching his eyes. He was nervous beyond belief.

“You’re nervous beyond belief aren’t you?”

“Uhh….”

Ryan narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t lie to me,”

“How did you know?”

“Your hands become sweaty,” Ryan grinned. “and we all know you have very dry skin like a mummy.”

Shane scoffed. “They’re not that dry.”

“Oh yeah? Next time don’t use moisturiser, see how that turns out.”

“Fine, fine, you got me,” Shane sighed, holding his hands up in surrender and slumping back into his own seat. _Come on Shane, enough stalling_. He pulled his chair closer to the desk, closer to Ryan. _Where to start?_ “Ryan,” _Sure, but what about after that?_

“Yes Shane?” Ryan humoured him with an exaggerated look.

_Out with it, out with it_. “Would you like to run away with me?”

It happened as anyone could’ve guessed. Ryan stilled for a few minutes, rebooting. Then came the intense questioning, the why, the who, the where, the when, the hows. Shane felt like a prisoner in an interrogation room, or the pious at a confessional. He relayed the whole story of Adam’s cornering, his plan and his reasonings metaphorically onto the desk before them.

“And we’ll just go?” Ryan asked, hand over this mouth.

“We’ll just up and go,” Shane confirmed, and adjusted his grip on Ryan’s hand. “We can go anywhere we want, just you and me.”

Ryan shot him a sly smile. “And Steven and Andrew, you mean.”

“We’ll ditch them after the first leg of our journey,” Shane said with all seriousness, eliciting another wheezing laugh from the other.

“But I’m,” Ryan began, looking down to their joined hands. “I’m not what you’d call normal, exactly.”

“Neither am I,” Shane admitted.

“I know you’re a giant-ass weirdo,” Ryan Rolle this eyes fondly, “but that’s not what I mean.”

Shane smiled warmly, gripping his hand tighter, the other coming to stroke at Ryan’s knuckles. He couldn’t keep it a secret forever, and he promised, _they promised_ , to do whatever it was together. “Ithink I see them too,” he confessed. “Sometimes.”

Ryan swallowed thickly, feeling a slick doubt curl at the bottom of his spine, laughing a little to clear the tension. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Shane said, eyebrows arching upwards.

He had to look away from those brown eyes for a moment, just to gather his thoughts, so he doesn’t make a mistake. “Then why did you lie to me?” he asked softly, disappointment evident in his voice.

“I was scared,” Shane came clean, still holding on tight. “I didn’t want it to be a case of folie à deux. I didn’t want it to be a mistake on my part. And I didn’t want to alarm you.”

A pause, a recalibrating. “So the stairs?” Ryan asked tentatively.

Shane held his gaze and inclined his head slightly. “I thought I felt someone push me.”

“I knew it!” Ryan crowed joyfully, then immediately backtracked and apologised, afraid he hurt Shane’s feelings.

“I mean, I am a little hurt.” Shane continued dramatically, “Would you kiss the boo-boo away?”

Ryan laughed boisterously, cupping his hands on Shane’s cheeks, leaning over to press the sloppiest kiss he had ever done to the other. “I cannot fucking believe you.”

“Believe it, baby,” Shane drawled as he pulled Ryan over to his side, wrapping his ams around the other who was in his lap. He trailed kisses up Ryan’s neck, savouring each little moan of pleasure. “Ryan Bergara, will you come with me?”

Ryan settled his hands on Shane’s shoulders, and he leaned forwards until their noses touched, their eyes much too close. “Shane Madej, I will come with you.” He closed the gap between them, relishing in the kiss, the press of their lips just right, the slide of their tongues against each other, the scratch of their stubble. He nipped Shane’s lower lip, “And don’t call me baby.”

Shane wheezed, eyes crinkling, as he pushed upwards to capture Ryan’s mouth in a kiss again. “ _Baby_ ,” he enunciated in that Southern drawl that Ryan secretly loved.

“Shut up, Shane.”

“Make me, baby.”

* * *

The plan was exceedingly simple. Much like how Adam sneaked Andrew to Steven’s room every night, all he had to do was to pause the camera recordings until the four had escaped.

( _“But they’ll notice, and both you and TJ will be the main suspects.”_

_“Let me worry about that. You just focus on convincing Ryan.”_ )

It went smoothly, Adam clicking pause on the recordings, Shane rapping lightly at three doors to alert the rest. They had everything packed in a bag (Andrew didn’t even have one, and Shane suspected he stuffed everything into those pockets in his thick jacket), and made their way down the hallway silently. They were joined by Adam at the stairwell, and they opened the metal back door slowly so that it wouldn’t creak and alert the whole place.

Out in the cool night air, Shane exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had been holding ever since his first day here. The air was fresher now, the copse of tress less threatening, the orange glow of the streetlights illuminating their path onwards. He gripped Ryan’s hand, wearing matching grins.

“Took you long enough,” came a voice form behind them, and Shane froze. He turned slowly to see TJ leaning on the wall next to the door, putting out a cigarette.

“Since when have you smoked?” he managed, palms sweating. Ryan felt his tension and attempted to pull him backwards, but Shane didn’t move from his spot.

TJ scraped the ashes from his shoe on a lone brick. “Since when have you decided to elope?”

“TJ,” Shane pleaded. He needed him to understand that this wasn’t a whim.

“Save it,” TJ sighed exasperatedly, pinching the area between his brows. Then, he swivelled his gaze to his friend’s, staring long and hard enough that Shane felt as if he were about to crawl out from his own skin. At length, he smirked at them, and said “Come here,” dragging both him and Ryan into a tight hug.

Shane patted TJ”s back and hugged him back hard, feeling the tears spring to his eyes.

“You love him right?” he gestured to Ryan, and Shane nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“And you love,” TJ pointedly spread a hand to gesture to all of the monstrosity that made Shane, Shane, “him?” Ryan laughed, gripping Shane’s hand tightly. “Yeah I do.”

“Then by the power invested in me,” TJ declared dramatically, “I now pronounce you discharged and fired. You may kiss the idiot.”

Shane grinned maniacally, wrapping his arms around Ryan and leaning down for a kiss. “Wait, who’s the idiot?”

“You both are!” TJ exclaimed, rolling his eyes. “You were literally dancing around each other so badly, it made me want to call Devon to whoop your asses into shape, maternity leave be damned.”

“Oh fuck you Teej,” Shane hissed to TJ’s soft laugh, planting an extra sloppy kiss on Ryan for him to see.

Ryan wiped his lips, frowning. “You slobber like a dog.”

“How rude of you,” Shane huffed.

“And here comes the banter. Again.” TJ looked up into the sky. “Lord, give me strength.”

“You don’t even believe in god!”

TJ shot him a look, half of disbelief and half of fond exasperation. “For this, I will,” he laughed, then pulled Shane into another hug. “You take care now, alright man?”

“Yeah I will,” Shane agreed, digging his chin into TJ’s shoulder, savouring the warmth. He pulled away and looked into the face which he had known for so many years. “You’re my best friend,” he said sincerely, his voice a tad watery.

Underneath the orange lights, he thought he saw the glitter of tears behind TJ’s eyes as well. “You too. You’re my best friend, Shane,” he smiled. “Other than Devon, of course.”

Shane laughed along with TJ, and it felt like a chapter of his life was coming to close. “Give her my love, would you?”

TJ gave him a two-fingered salute, then turned to face Ryan. “If he fucks up, go ahead and slap some sense into him okay? He’s not always there.”

“Will do,” Ryan grinned, giving TJ another hug. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” TJ returned. “You’re the only one who he cares about enough to take care of himself.”

Beside them, Shane heard the other trio exchanging tearful goodbyes as well.

“You two, take care of yourselves okay?”

Steven smiled through the tears obscuring his eyes, wiping them away with the sleeve of his shirt. “We will,” he sobbed.

“Yep, we will,” Andrew agreed, one hand on Steven’s back and one on Adam’s shoulder. “We’ll go on all the food adventures we planned when we were still young, go eat some ridiculously good food at ridiculous prices all around the globe.”

Adam laughed, a wet sound. “Don’t eat too much, you’ll be spending all your days in the toilets.” He nudged Steven on the shoulder lightly, “Especially you, Steven. Mr. Lactose intolerant, can’t stand spices.”

“It’s not my fault my stomach isn’t made of iron!” he laughed nasally. Andrew stretched upwards to ruffle his hair, ignoring the tears in his own eyes. “One day, when they forget our existence, we’ll come back to get you,” Steven promised, gripping Adam’s hand in his own. “Then we’ll travel all around America for our food adventure.”

“The three musketeers, together again at last,” Andrew chimed in, gripping Adam's other hand. “We’ll always come back to get you, buddy.”

“I’d like that,” Adam whispered, two fat tears trekking across his cheeks to fall into his beard. He smiled at them and gripped their hands back. “I’d like that very much.”

Everyone exchanged hugs and well-wishes, thanking each other, hoping the best for each other. A white van rolled into the car park, and Adam opened the door to it. “This is Curly,” he introduced briskly, the driver up front peppy and sweet. “Hola a todos! Let’s get this show on the road!”

Steven and Andrew were bundled up in the back while Ryan and Shane sat in the middle. They waved goodbye to Adam and TJ who stood on the street, until they were out of sight. It was bittersweet, and Shane felt his eyes welling up again at all they had to leave behind. There were so many people they didn’t manage to say goodbye to, so many things left unsaid. He would miss them, the patients, the staff, the place.

Ryan’s tug on his arm drew his attention back to the rocking of the van, and the other pulled him down for a chaste kiss. “Together,” he whispered, caressing the side of Shane’s cheek.

“Together,” he replied, doing the same to the other, thanking whoever it was up there who set him on the path right to Ryan. He curled his arm around him, and Ryan rested his head in the nook between his shoulder.

The van rocked onwards on the bumpy road, towards tomorrow.

* * *

**Maybe one can’t condemn another person,**

**Only their actions.**

_~_ Edward St. Aubyn _, Patrick Melrose_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a list of references, not listed to any format: (please do check them out if you're interested) 
> 
> 1) Durand, V. M., & Barlow, D. H. (2019). Essentials of Abnormal Psychology. (8th Edition). 
> 
> 2) What is Schizophrenia? Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K2sc_ck5BZU
> 
> 3) Schizophrenia and Mental Illness: What the Voices in My Head Say. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4K9vp99imjs
> 
> 4) Schizophrenia and Dissociative Disorders. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uxktavpRdzU
> 
> 5) I Am Not a Monster: Schizophrenia. Retrieved from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbagFzcyNiM


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